


i'll reject your reality and go home to my own (but not without fixing a few things first)

by Zekkass



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, Background Character Death, Background Slash, Gen, Parallel Universes, Science Bros, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zekkass/pseuds/Zekkass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't expect to come back from that one-way trip. He doesn't expect to wake up in the past.</p><p>(Steve doesn't expect a robot to show up in his home, but he's always rolled with the punches.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [inspire expire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/448939) by [legete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/legete/pseuds/legete). 



> I read legete's [inspire expire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/448939), saw what she'd done to Steve in that universe, and went 'Nope.' This is the resulting fixit fic.
> 
> You may be able to read and understand this fic without reading inspire expire, but that's a long shot - seriously, go read it. It's good.
> 
> Many thanks to legete for letting me write this, beta-reading it, and generally encouraging me. :3

It's _freezing_ when Tony wakes up. Dead cold. He waits, getting his bearings: last thing he remembers is the Chitauri spaceship, an explosion - and he sits up, hears someone gasp before breaking into a coughing fit.

He's in a bedroom, a cold one, and snow is falling outside the window. There's a kid sitting on the end of the bed, looking frail and small and Tony could swear that he's blue, he looks that cold.

His mind races to fill in the blanks, making up likely scenarios on the spot: he fell back through the portal, no one saw him until this kid dragged him inside. But it's snowing outside and it wasn't when he went up, so that's one theory down, dozens to go.

He raises a hand, stops. He's still armored, and it's only now that the systems are getting back in order, heating coming back online. His bruises are still there, he can feel them. All of his injuries are blaring warnings at him, telling him not to move, to let his body get the rest it needs to heal.

Someone (the kid?) put a blanket over him. Tony shakes his head (carefully) at the gesture, and pulls it off of him, swinging his feet off the bed.

"Are you okay?" he asks, because a coughing fit should not last that long.

"Y-yeah." The kid looks at him, the glow from Tony's reactor lighting his face up and Tony stops, theories dropping like flies: it's Steve. There's no mistaking that face. It's not even strange that he's so small (must be pre-serum, his mind is quick to remind him). Tony can see him shivering even without the suit's enhancements, and the first thing he does is put the blanket around Steve's shoulders, annoyed at how thin it is.

"I'd heat that up, but I might set it on fire," Tony says instead, encouraging the heaters to work overtime, so they'll force the suit's surface to heat up. "What year is it?"

"Nineteen forty-three, mister," Steve says, trembling fingers taking the blanket. "When are you from?" Either he's so cold he's not thinking clearly or he's read more pulps than Tony knew. (In retrospect, it makes sense that Steve wouldn't be fazed, he thinks. Steve had barely batted an eyelash at the aliens, after all.)

"The future," Tony says, holding out a hand. Less for the purpose of shaking Steve's hand, more for showing him how warm the armor is now. It can't be healthy for Steve to be that cold, and the temperature readings in the room are ridiculous.

His situation's ridiculous too, but he can probably chalk it up to a closing portal being unstable and unreliable, especially if the person in it when it's closing picked the wrong set of seconds to fall through. It doesn't explain why he's in Steve Rogers' bed, but it's a start.

Steve takes his hand, and gasps. "Warm!"

Tony's mouth quirks in a smile and he does the best thing for Steve's health that he can possibly do right now: he carefully pulls Steve closer, into a pseudo-hug, making sure the blanket gets included so it can warm up too.

It can't be comfortable to be held so close to the armor, but Steve melts into it after a second, still looking shell-shocked but unashamedly greedy for the heat.

"I thought I was dreaming," Steve says a few seconds later. "I come in and there's this robot sleeping in my bed."

"I'm not a robot," Tony protests, then quiets. "...couldn't find the catches, huh?"

"Catches?"

Tony doesn't hesitate, opening the face-plate and showing his face to Steve. The air is _cold_ , but for the look on Steve's face it's worth it, all shock and awe and Tony can just _hear_ the 'there's a man in there!' that Steve isn't saying. "Jesus, it's cold in here," he says instead. "Someone break the heater?"

"There isn't one," Steve says, before coughing again, covering his mouth. It's not a nice cough, all messy and Tony remembers the medical record he pulled on Steve before the serum. This isn't a good sign, and a moment later he realizes: the date doesn't line up. Steve should be fighting Nazis now instead of sitting in this freezing apartment.

"Let me guess," Tony says, covering the worry. "Too broke for a doctor?"

From Steve's nod, Tony just secures his hold, making sure Steve's warming up.

"It looks like the timeline's already broken," Tony says with false cheer. "So I'm going to stick around and break it more."

Steve is looking at him, half-woozy just from getting some warmth into him, but Tony recognizes the way his features are schooling themselves. He can read vague disapproval before Steve even says, "Is that a good idea?"

"Is building you a heater and getting some medical treatment a bad idea?"

"Those aren't the only things you're going to do, are they," Steve asks flatly, and Tony has the sinking feeling that Steve's overblown sense of responsibility is going to kick in.

It's fortunate that Steve's not big enough to stop him from helping.

"Nope," Tony says cheerfully, carefully pressing a warm hand to Steve's chest. "But I'll start there. Know any good junkyards?"

"You can't go outside like that!"

"What?"

Steve looks alarmed, which Tony thinks isn’t necessarily a great expression on him. "Dressed like that! People will think you're a - a robot."

"I can take it off," Tony dismisses, already planning ahead. "I might need to borrow some clothes, though. You'll have to help me hide the armor, too - if this gets stolen...let's not think about that. Moving on! Details I should be clear on before I go anywhere. I'm currently in Brooklyn, New York, USA, and the country's at war. Right?"

"How did you know you're in Brooklyn?" Steve pushes Tony's hand off his chest, because after all this, after having a man in a robot suit in his bed, Tony knowing they’re in Brooklyn is apparently the dealbreaker. "Who are you?"

"One question at a time," Tony says, quirking a grin. "I said I'm from the future. Well, lucky for you: I'm American, and I remember the highlights of history class."

"That doesn't answer either of my questions." There's a stubborn set to Steve's jaw that Tony recognizes regardless of Steve's stature. For the first time, he seems a little suspicious, as if he’s just realizing that this can’t be normal. All the same, Tony’s grimly amused to note that Steve’s not relinquishing the warmth his suit’s putting out.

"Call me Tony."

"Tony," Steve repeats drily, like he’s not even expecting to be offered more than that.

"My last name would be spoilers," he says with a shrug. "My turn. Did you hear or see anything unusual before you found me in here?"

"Ye - is that _blood_?" And suddenly Steve's hand is on his forehead, fingertips coming away red.

"Oh," Tony says. "Yeah, don't mind that."

"You're hurt!" Steve bolts upright, and the sudden movement makes Tony sit up in surprise.

Holding Steve - especially a smaller Steve - still when he's in your lap and trying to get closer to your face to check on your health - is something Tony finds comparable to holding a live bass. He’s determined and surprisingly slippery, and the blanket isn't helping. In the end he just lets Steve brace one hand on his shoulder and peer at him intently.

"...Have a first-aid kit?" Tony asks, because Steve just isn't going to drop this, is he.

"I'm not a doctor," Steve says. "But I have bandages, and some medication - do you want to see it?"

"Skip it," Tony says firmly. Any drugs might be a bad idea, as he has no idea what they'll do to his mind, and he needs his facilities. He'll get to the bandages and everything else later, when he's got a chance to maybe try hiding how badly he's hurt from Steve. No need to let him worry, after all. "I'll be as good as new after a night of sleep."

Steve's still too close, but he finally nods and settles back down on Tony's lap, obviously self-conscious about it but it's cold and Tony's not letting him go far.

"What happened to the other guy?"

"Guys. It was an army, actually. I think the one who gave me this...actually, no, that was a taxi. When I get back I'll get JARVIS to give me a comprehensive readout of what and who did what," Tony says, trailing off as notices the way Steve’s looking at him changing, the growing interest. He doesn’t like how Steve's eyes lit up at the word _army_.

"You're a _soldier_?"

"I am _not_ a soldier!" Tony says on reflex, straightening, his hold on Steve getting tighter. He doesn't miss the echo of an argument held an entire army ago.

"You were up against an army," Steve says, that stubborn set back in his face. "Soldiers fight armies."

"Semantics. I'm not a soldier." Tony says, thinking of how he'd followed Cap's orders when the team thing had come up. How he'd _asked_ for them. Too soon to examine it. Too soon to defend it. "The city was in trouble, I did what I could."

"Who were they?"

"No country you've ever heard of," Tony says, then quickly changes the subject with a "hey, are you warm enough?"

"What? Oh, yes - thank you. Should I..." Tony doesn’t even let him try to awkward his way through that sentence, and instead just helps Steve wrap the blanket around himself and gently deposits him back onto the bed proper, then gets up. He turns the heat down, letting his armor relax the output down to just enough to keep the frigid air in the spartan apartment at bay.

"Get some sleep," Tony says. "I'll be here when you wake up, and I promise not to cause any panics until you're around to contain them."

"That's not very reassuring."

"Get some sleep, Steve."

"How do you know my name?" Steve asks, staring up at him. Tony can just see it: if not for the cold air, Steve would leap to his feet and demand more answers, but for once the weather is working in Tony's favor. Steve stays in bed, curled up with a blanket and a heated bed, courtesy of Iron Man.

"Long story," Tony says. "Same reason I know we're in Brooklyn. Get some sleep."

He leaves the room, leaves Steve in the dark without the glow of the reactor lighting up the gloom, and finds himself in what must be the living room. There's the most miserable example of a couch he has ever laid eyes upon, and he sinks into it gingerly, afraid that if he isn't gentle, the weight of the armor will make it give up altogether.

Armor. Right.

Tony finally turns his attentions to the armor, running self-diagnostics: the situation for the armor is grim. He's got enough power to fly, more than enough power to run and heat the armor, but no unibeam and the repulsors are questionable at best. Actually, nix the flying. It'd be a bad idea to drain the power without any foreseeable chances to recharge it or swap cores in the future.

He hasn't even addressed the numerous cosmetic damages or even - hell - the few instances where he can't fully move a limb because of the damage. Getting the armor off is going to be a bitch, and he doesn't exactly have tools available to him.

Tony curls his fingers and sits back, exhaling. In the past with barely functional armor and more than a few injuries that he doesn't want to address yet. (He doesn't dare think of why or how he got those injuries, because that might lead to thoughts of the team and he can't do anything about that, not now. He hates feeling powerless.)

"...been in worse situations," he mutters, and closes his eyes. Almost all of his body is yelling at him and telling him to get some rest, and for once he's willing to give into those demands.

\---

"Wow, what happened to _you_?"

Tony opens his eyes to morning sunlight to find Steve gaping at him, and he bites back his initial reaction of _I could say the same thing._ It’s painfully obvious now that this is not the same Steve. There’s something innately fragile-looking about him. It’s 1943, which makes Steve, what? Twenty-five? But his fine features and sickly pallor make him seem much younger than that. There are dark shadows around his eyes and his clothes are loose around his frame, like they were made for a larger, healthier man. Just looking at him is making Tony cringe internally.

But Steve’s looking at him anxiously, and Tony doesn’t have a good way to say _wow, that serum really packed a wallop_ without a lot of awkward questions springing up immediately afterwards, so he sweeps a hand down to encompass the suit and yawns dramatically as he retracts his face-plate. "I had these when I got here. Must've missed it without better lighting."

"I thought..." Steve trails off. "You could have slept in my bed." Tony can hear the 'should have' and no, nope. Steve looks like a breeze could tip him over, and the cold might have killed him if he had slept out here.

He gets up abruptly and the sudden movement, coupled with the explosion of pain from about a hundred different places in his body, causes a sudden wave of memories from yesterday to flash through his mind - the Chitauri, Loki, the nuke, everything that happened. It must show on his face, the sudden distress, because Steve immediately comes in closer, concern writ plain on his features.

"Back off, I'm fine," Tony says even though he's not, and he has to take a minute, slide the face-plate back down while he figures out how this works. How he's still alive.

Readouts alerting him to the armor's damage crawl across his vision, along with countless bits of information he would usually leave to JARVIS but he left JARVIS back on Earth in the future, and even the best AI couldn't come back in time for him.

He follows the trail of thoughts about the myriad ways JARVIS could potentially figure out that he'd have to construct a time-machine and use it to retrieve Tony but in the end that's way too long a shot to rely on and he's just distracting himself from everything.

Everything. He hears 'that's a one way trip' echo in his mind and he feels another pulse of pain chase that up, a reminder that if he wants to walk around pretending that he's not hurt, he needs to give in and ask for medical supplies right now.

"Steve, I'm going to need those bandages," he says in a calmer tone than he should be able to make right now, and he's only vaguely aware of the kid (Steve, a kid? By this date he should have had to kill at least one man, by this time he should be older than anyone has any right to be, he shouldn't be this small) running off to get those bandages for him.

The armor has to come off. He won't be able to stop thinking about the fight otherwise, not that he'll be able to stop thinking about the fight at all, but having reminders flashing in his face - god, he needs a drink.

Steve comes back as he's pulling the helmet off, bracing himself for how cold the air is, and he offers a tired smile as he sets the helmet on the cushion next to him. It looks as battered as he feels.

"There really was an army," Tony says, taking the bandages and setting them next to the helmet. "And I'm going to need that blanket next."

"I didn't say I don't believe you," Steve says, but he goes for the blanket. Tony turns his attention to shutting down the armor and getting out of it, pulling off piece after damaged piece before running into joints he knows won't come off without force, and he is not looking forward to that.

He's got the chassis exposed by the time Steve gets back, and he'd be freezing if not for the ambient heat the suit is still giving off. It doesn't help that the metal is cooling quickly as the heating systems shut down, either.

"Can I help?"

"Yeah, do you have any wrenches on hand?" Tony asks, taking a moment to run gauntleted fingers over the damage on the chest-plate. "Or a screwdriver. A screwdriver would be magnificent right now. I can't bend my knees very far, and that's not even talking about the damage to the ankle joints. Or the shoulders. Or anything, really. Oh, and a glass of water would help too - " Tony cuts off as a blanket is dropped into his hands, and oh. Right. "You're not JARVIS."

"I'm not Jarvis," Steve confirms. "And I don't have a wrench, but I might have a screwdriver. No water, though - the pipes are frozen."

"Damn," Tony says. "Okay, screwdriver. I'm going to get my armor off, patch myself up, and then we'll get to work on getting you some heating in here. Thanks for the blanket." That he drapes over his shoulders before he gets back to work.

Steve comes back fairly soon, carrying a screwdriver and a glass filled with a little water, enough for maybe a few swallows.

"I thought the pipes were frozen," Tony says, taking them both.

"It's snowing," Steve says. Tony has to blink at him for a moment, suddenly aware that he's been used to - well, not needing to collect water from the sky.

"Okay, awesome." He moves on. "Clear the seat next to me and sit, you look frozen again, and I'm not going to stand for that."

"Tony, I want you to tell me the full story of how you got here," Steve says. Tony knows how this works: Steve's been hospitable and has followed his orders, but he's expecting answers in return, and a working heater isn't going to cover it.

Simple enough. "Shame you won't believe most of it," he tells Steve.

Steve doesn't answer, instead picking up the helmet and giving him a look.

"You're still not going to believe it," Tony says as he pries a boot off. "I lived through it and I'm still working on believing it."

Steve's silent for a moment, then asks: "Can I help?"

"Nope," Tony says before passing the blanket over, wrapping it around Steve. "You stay warm, I'll handle this."

For a few minutes there's silence as Tony fights with the metal over his hip. He focuses on the task at hand, missing his tools at home more than ever. It's the kind of work that needs more precise tools if he wants to preserve anything, and especially now he wants to keep as much of the suit intact as he can. It's not like he can replace it, after all.

"There's blood in your hair," Steve says suddenly, and Tony looks over to find Steve's hand out-stretched, almost touching. He jerks his hand back as soon as he's spotted, but meets Tony's eyes.

"I got knocked around," Tony says easily, raising a hand to carefully run fingers through his hair and no, nope, bad idea. His fingers catch on dried blood and even the gentle tugs are too painful to think about. He hopes he hasn't cracked his skull and abandons the thought before it can get too far. "Anyways. It's not as bad as it looks, so sit tight."

"What - "

Tony can hear Steve close his mouth as Tony pulls his shirts off, peeling away fabric that doesn't want to budge for the blood that's glued it to his skin, and it hurts like hell. He doesn't hiss, he doesn't say anything until he's set the shirts to the side, draping them over the end of the couch. He might have to replace one of them, but putting that aside for now he's got injuries to check.

God, he’s a mess. It's more bruises than anything else thanks to the armor, but even with that he looks like he's been through a war. His ribs are sore, he's sore, and he puts a hand over the reactor in relief: it wasn't damaged at all.

Bandages. Right.

Still ignoring Steve, he collects those and begins to tape himself up, wishing for disinfectant and a modern first-aid kit but making do with what he's got.

His fingers pause over a nice bruise over his collarbone and he sighs. "Thanks, Cap," he mutters before moving on. "Bounce the shield off of me, fantastic."

"What?"

Tony blinks and looks at Steve, then shrugs. "This one happened during a fight with a demi-god. Cap broke up the fight by bouncing his shield off of us, and while I'm _grateful_ ," sarcasm, check, "that it didn't slice into me or damage the armor, I don't have enough cushioning built into the armor to prevent every bruise yet. I'll build it into the next Mark, top priority, I promise."

"It looks fresh," Steve says, leaning in. There's a serious kind of worry in his voice that Tony's wary of. "They all do."

"I had a busy day," Tony says easily, twisting to tape up split skin along his side. "Hey, bonus to the cold, I don't have to ask for an ice-pack."

When he looks at Steve with a grin, it's difficult to keep it from slipping off his face at Steve's stricken expression.

"I said it wasn't as bad as it looks," Tony defends himself, setting the bandages aside. "We'll rob a drugstore later, it'll be great."

"What? No we won't!" Aha, that's distracted him. Tony takes his cleaner shirt and slides it back on, putting up with the mess.

"The smallest I've got in my wallet right now is a hundred," Tony says, shaking his head. "And between the date printed on it and my credit cards, I'm broke right now...okay, that's something I never thought I'd say. Time travel sucks."

Steve opens and closes his mouth a few times before apparently giving up on saying anything, and Tony grins at him.

"You wanted the full story," Tony says. "Sit tight and listen. I'm from at least fifty years in the future, and yesterday - yesterday for me - I was working with a team to protect New York City from an alien invasion led by a Norse demi-god. Hence the injuries. No, invasions aren't common in the future. Yes, we won. No, I'm not telling you details. At least not details that could break the timeline more than it's been broken."

He drinks the glass of water at that, finally washing away the taste of blood that had begun to sink in. It's cold and bracing, which is just what he needs, because otherwise he might have to start laughing at the situation, and if he did start he might never stop.

He's in the 1940s, sitting next to Steve Rogers after nuking an alien spaceship after fighting off an army and hey, good for him, he did save the Earth. No avenging required.

He. They. They saved the earth. Little things to remember.

"Hey," Tony says suddenly. "Are you sure about the date? Nineteen forty-three?"

"Yes." Steve says, giving him an odd look. "It'll be nineteen forty-four in a month."

"...Okay, the timeline really is broken." Tony says, sitting back, stunned. "I hope I'm not back here to fix it, because it's too late for that."

"What do you mean?"

"You're here." Tony says. "There's something that should've happened within the last year that hasn't. That you're here is proof enough."

He's giving away too much, he knows that. The problem is, Steve's smart enough to put together that he's important to the future, that whatever made him important started already, and from what Tony remembers, Steve was trying desperately to get enlisted.

If he wants to keep Steve from realizing that - or at least put it off - he needs to do something now to pull him from his train of thought.

"Are you still an artist?" he asks, and is gratified to see Steve lose the thread of their conversation entirely and give him a confused look.

"Why would I stop?" Steve asks, and wait whoa no that is the wrong question to ask, Steve can jump from there back to the previous train of thought, and Tony was trying to derail him.

"Great! Let me see your latest?" Tony says hastily, getting up. The air is _freezing_ , a fresh reminder hitting him through his bloodied shirt, and for a second he can't move.

He feels fingers on his elbow, and he half-turns (carefully!) to look at Steve, hoping that the cold covers how pale he must be. He's dizzy and the injuries are getting to him. Now isn't the time.

It's cold, though. Almost as cold as space was.

"...You aren't okay, are you?"

"Just fine," Tony manages, a hand unconsciously finding its way to his chest and to the reactor that is still there, that will always be there. The chill reminds him of space, of that terrible moment when the power cut off, all of it. The reactor had shut down with the suit, he could _feel_ it go out, and in that instant he would’ve sworn he could feel those shards _move_.

"Sit down?" Steve tugs at his arm, then stands up himself, putting his hands on Tony's shoulders and making him sit. Tony's first thought is that Steve shouldn't be standing either, not when it's still so cold.

Steve sits, carefully scooting closer to share the blanket and what little warmth he has and if Tony weren't in such pain or so cold he might protest or he might take an interest in how close Steve is.

"Just fine," Tony repeats, but he's not. He didn't die; he's alive here, but he's a scientist and his hand makes its way from his reactor to his wrist, checking his pulse.

He has a heartbeat.

Steve is looking at him, openly concerned, and Tony wonders what he would do if he weren't so small, and if they were anywhere but here.

"Oh," Steve says quietly, as if he's put something together for himself. Good for him, glad to know he's as capable of independent thought as Tony is.

"Yeah?" Tony asks, hoping it's something harmless, that this won't be a thought that Steve can't take back once he's put it into words. Tony doesn't have the strength to fight right now, not without cost to himself, not now.

"You're not a soldier," Steve says slowly, carefully. Tony closes his eyes, trusting the bad feeling in his gut. "You weren't prepared for an army.”

"Doesn't matter," Tony says, hating the bitter twist in his gut. "There was only one soldier in the lot." He's wrong even as he says it: Thor's a warrior, isn't a soldier cut from the same cloth as Steve was, but used to fighting with others for those kind of stakes all the same. Hawkeye and Black Widow: assassins, SHIELD-issue, used to chains of command. Perhaps the Black Widow doesn't fit either, but he can laugh away any chance of that ever getting _hinted_ at in his presence.

There's Hulk, but...Hulk.

"...Actually, some of the others qualify," Tony says. "I'm not one of them. I'm usually on my own."

Except he's never alone, not with JARVIS in the suit, coordinating tactics, reminding him to make calls he would never think to make - he has to shut down that line of thought there, before it cuts him too deeply, before he thinks of fear that shot through him along with the cold in the depths of space, with a nuke leaving his hands, with metal clawing through to his heart, without any trace of home, and he is still too much alone -

Tony's covering the reactor again, and he can only hope that Steve missed that entire episode of hell that ran through his mind.

"Why weren't you alone this time?" Steve asks, and when Tony looks at him he can see it in Steve's eyes: that searching, calculating look that he'd pinned Tony with back on the Helicarrier, and forget how small or large he is, his mind is all there, he is Steve Rogers through and through, that's who Tony needs to be wary of.

By all rights Tony should refuse his question and shut up and take care of his own issues.

"Phil," Tony says instead. "He pulled the team together."

"Team?"

"We had advance warning," Tony says. "Well, not really. We knew there was the possibility of an army, unless we stopped it, but we didn't, not in time to halt production on Stormtroopers in New York: The Reckoning." His lips twist: he's not explaining the joke.

It would be a great B-movie, though. Along with Stormtroopers in New York: The Son of the Reckoning.

Steve frowns, and Tony can see his mind working, putting more pieces together.

"Team?" he repeats, and Tony almost sighs.

"Fine, fine, headcount," Tony closes his eyes. "Demi-god, super-soldier, couple of master assassins, Hulk, me. And before you ask, the National Guard did show up, but they were out-gunned and out-classed. It was up to us."

"Stormtroopers are German," Steve says after a pause, and Tony groans.

"They weren't Nazis, nor Germans, jesus. Just call them..." Tony quickly discards the idea of actually naming the Chitauri. "Stormtroopers from the Galactic Empire. And _before_ you complain, I'm referencing something that isn't out yet."

There's a moment where Tony can gather his thoughts and begin to count the ways in which this can possibly go wrong, and if he gets home to find Steve accusing him of screwing up the future before he even got there, he's going to punch something. Probably Steve.

If they've got Loki around, he'll punch him too. He spares a thought to calculate how angry he'll be if he gets back to find out that they didn't catch Loki. Angry enough to set Thor's cape on fire, he decides after a moment, and nods to himself, slowly relaxing.

Perfect time for Steve to break the silence.

"Who do you fight? When you're alone."

"Steve, you're digging for more spoilers," Tony scolds, but gives up an answer. "Terrorists, usually. The odd supervillain. This kind of scale is new. It was..." He trails off, then picks what is probably the wrong word. "Fun."

It _had_ been fun, to be completely honest. Painful and scary and far too desperate for his tastes, but he'd never pushed the armor that hard before, never for that long, and on top of that he'd gotten to threaten a demi-god. Playing come-catch-me with Chitauri chariots had been exhilarating, and he remembered the thrill that had come with his entire re-enactment of Jonah and the Whale.

"Fun?"

"Yeah, fun," Tony says. "Good word for it. The tactical systems got a workout, I got to play tag on steroids, the works." He doesn't stop the grin, because for all of the nightmares he's earned from this, he still wouldn't trade in the experience.

He's skip the nuke, actually, but he still hasn't figured out a clean way to get the good without the bad. No Iron Man without the reactor, no coconut without metal. Or vise-versa. Without touching the stickier metaphors.

"Awesome," Tony murmurs. "I'm going stir-crazy in here. What do we have for breakfast?"

"Breakfast?"

"I assume we're not going to spend the day cuddled up with each other," Tony says. "And there had better be food somewhere in this equation, or I'll get the repulsors back up and running."

Abruptly he wonders: does he still have a missile somewhere in the armor, or did he use all of the explosive weaponry during the fight?

"Actually, you look into breakfast, I'll make sure we're safe," Tony says before Steve can say anything, leaning forward despite the protests in his joints to grab for the nearest piece of armor.

"...Safe?"

"Depending on if my count is correct, we might have a live bomb in the armor right now," Tony says. "No biggie. I'll disable it if - "

"A _bomb_?" Steve's instantly on his feet.

"Oops." Tony says under his breath. It's too cold for this. "Steve, quit freaking out. It's safe."

"You just said _live bomb_."

Tony carefully checks the armor over, as relaxed as he can be with his injuries. "I did, yeah. Slept with it all night. If it's here. The likeliest situation for the armor is that I spent all of the weaponry on the Ch- stormtroopers. Just down to repulsor blasts and the unibeam, and that won't go off on accident."

"You were wearing a flying arsenal."

"I built it myself." Tony flashes him a grin.

"With bombs strapped to your arms."

"Why is this the thing that finally freaks you out?" Tony asks.

"Does the word kamikaze mean anything to you?"

"And there aren't such things as bombers in the US Air Force."

For a long moment they stare at each other, then Tony gets back to work. It's as he thought: clean of any weaponry that's not powered by the arc reactor.

"It's safe," he reports. "As safe as I am. How about breakfast?" He gets up, giving Steve another grin, and this: this is when Tony _notices_ the drawings.

The room is not well-lit, but the sunlight has been coming in stronger and stronger and now he can see that Steve has put up drawings on the walls, and propped up pieces against the wall, ostensibly to dry.

The subjects are varied, of landscapes and figure studies and animals and of Brooklyn and there, tucked in a corner he almost doesn't look in, is a drawing of a muscular man carrying a gaudy shield with the words 'YOU ARE OUR BEST DEFENSE - BUY BONDS' done in bold lettering.

Without thinking: "Captain America."

It's little more than murmured words, but Steve looks as if Tony has taken a sledgehammer to him.

"How did you know?" Steve asks, stepping forward, steel coming into his gaze to cover up how _devastated_ he looks. "How did you _know_?" His voice raises with the last word, and Tony automatically raises his hands in defense.

"I..." Thoughts pass through his mind: the date, Steve's stature, his reaction, the drawing, and everything is pointing to a far too obvious conclusion that he would have realized if he hadn't been thrown through time as well, and maybe he's here for a reason. Maybe. It's not like biology is his specialty, the portal should have sent Bruce for that, but the world doesn't need Steve with a Hulk, and that's a cruel thought he should never voice.

"That was classified!" Steve's still angry, and he comes closer, voice raising as he advances. "You wouldn't know that it didn't work if you weren't there - tell me!"

Tony backs up - he doesn't want to find out how badly he can be hurt now, not when he's already injured.

So he says: "I think I'm in the wrong dimension too."

Which brings Steve up short. He's still tense, still looks half-ready to demand answers from Tony, and then - then he doubles over, coughing.

Tony grabs the blanket, wrapping it around Steve again, and tries to go to the kitchen.

"Wait," Steve stops him, grabbing his arm. It's not a strong grip, and Tony could go anyways. He doesn't.

"I'll tell you everything after we get you a drink and warm you up," Tony promises. "You're probably going to wind up hating me for coming here and telling you anything, just so you know. Fair warning."

"I still want to know."

"Yeah, I thought so. Come on. Do you have cough drops?"

"No," Steve says, following him into the kitchen. It's tiny and almost barren but Tony manages to grab a glass and embark on a short trip to the windowsill to obtain water for Steve, and he thinks he may have seen some canned soup he can heat up later. It's a crying shame that this place doesn't have a microwave.

"I need a junkyard," Tony says while Steve tries not to stand too close while at the same time inching closer to get some heat. "A good one, with plenty of pieces I can refashion into electronics. This is just sad."

"I'm sorry I live in a cave," Steve says, deadpan. Tony just flashes him a grin.

"It could be worse," Tony says. "Believe me, I've been there. This place is like a palace compared to a cave."

"...And you'd know?"

"Long story."

For a moment there's silence while Steve sips at the slushy water. It's nice, Tony thinks. His wounds still sting and ache, he's still freezing, and he's years away from the nearest shawarma joint, but he's not in any danger.

At least, not yet. He still doesn't know how he got into Steve's apartment, as opposed to anywhere else, and he's not sure if he can chalk that up to the portal being whimsical or not.

"Okay, let's stop harping on my problems and go over yours," Tony says by way of introducing the subject. "You want to know how I know about Captain America. As you're confident about the date and know about the Captain too, I think I can safely assume that I not only fell back in time, I'm in another universe as well. Or somehow my presence here means that the timeline is broken and I don't have anywhere to get back to." He stops. He doesn't like that thought. Too late to avoid voicing it, though.

"...Go on."

"Good man," Tony says. "Ignore my plight in favor of yours."

"That's not what I meant - !"

Tony grins at Steve's sudden righteousness and waves a hand. "Kidding, kidding. I know you're a bleeding heart. Too polite to interrupt, even though I just implied something you're ready to jump on. Right?"

"Please stop stalling."

"Assuming all of the above, you should be Captain America right now, punching out Nazis in Italy." Tony says this bluntly. He meets Steve's eye. He watches as Steve receives that sledgehammer blow again.

He's expecting that Steve wants to punch him now. It's probably justified.

"I don't know how or why you're not," Tony starts, so Steve doesn't have to say anything. He takes the glass from Steve's hands. "But the reason I act like I know you is because I do. You put a plane down in the Atlantic Ocean to save the country, and the serum kept you alive when you were frozen. Seventy years later you were found and defrosted, and we fought together to save the city. You were on the ground and still alive when I went universe hopping."

This isn't as fun to tell as he'd been hoping. It's too much for Steve, any single piece of it is too much for him, and Tony shifts the glass from hand to hand, wishing it had alcohol in it.

"If you want to hit me now, there's a line, but you can hop in front. Free pass."

"Stop talking," Steve says suddenly, and Tony closes his mouth. "How do I know that any of that's true?"

There's a stubborn will in his words, and Tony can see how his hands have clenched into fists. Oh, right: this is Captain America. Whether he's been through a war or not there's still at heart everything that made him the Captain, and Tony's heard too many stories about him and met the real thing so he _knows_ that he needs to stop underestimating the little guy.

"I can't answer your question and stay silent at the same time," Tony says, and _now_ Steve gives him a mean right hook. Tony staggers, hand raising to touch his jaw, and half-turns to set the glass down as well as get the worst of his injuries further away from Steve.

Who probably won't punch him again. He's not that kind of guy.

"If you're going to do that, try not to kill me," Tony says. "I'd make a mess on your floor."

"Just answer the question."

"Yes, sir!" Tony mocks a salute, then rubs his jaw. "I'm telling the truth because there's no reason to lie about this. It won't change anything now."

"I only have your word for that."

"You only have my word for all of it." Tony says, then pauses. "...And my tech, but that doesn't mean much if I can't prove I made it."

Steve clenches his jaw and turns away from him. Tony can't begin to guess at how he's feeling, not precisely. To be offered a chance at everything, and then to have it snatched away, before his very eyes?

He thinks of Yinsen and shakes his head. It's too different. He has no true frame of reference for this.

Maybe if the bomb still wiped out Manhattan, despite his actions - ?

No, different: that's the sting of failure, where he'll place the blame squarely on his shoulders for not doing enough, and that's still too different.

"Sorry," Tony says, quiet.

"You were right."

That's a given.

"I wish you hadn't told me," Steve says. He turns back to face Tony. "What do we need to do to get you home?" All business. Tony appreciates that.

"It's the forties," Tony says. "The kind of technology I need is either decades away or classified. But you're asking for a starting point, so what I need is a junkyard."

"Then we'll go to a junkyard today," Steve says. "Is there anyone you should call for help?"

"We can't show up on his doorstep," Tony says immediately. "There's no telling where he's wound up in this timeline, either. Probably in Europe right now."

...He should have thought about that first, he realizes belatedly. Steve's already got a calculating look in his eye and no, no he is not going to look into this. He is not going to try and contact his dad. Not an option.

This isn't even approaching the fact that he has no idea how to build a time-traveling device. A TARDIS of his very own, he thinks giddily, then dismisses the thought. Keep it small, portable. Maybe build it into the suit.

But right, there's the problem: he doesn't have any of the calculations or logistics worked out on how such a device would actually work.

He leans against the counter, deep in thought. He doesn't miss how Steve walks out of the room, however, and he closes his eyes.

...He's going to try and find out what went wrong with the serum, isn't he?

If Tony is completely honest with himself, he knows he's sunk already. Everything about this situation is screaming _wrong wrong wrong_ at him, and he can't walk away. There's absolutely no way he can go home without looking into the business with the serum.

There's a challenge he never got involved with, for a variety of reasons (Bruce comes to mind, an involuntary thought): the super-soldier serum.

He's sunk.

He's sunk, and the best course of action regarding the serum is to go and try to find someone who was there and involved at the time, and he does not want to go to Europe.

He doesn't have the _funds_ to go to Europe.

"Ridiculous," Tony mutters. He's getting too far off-track.

So he pulls away from the counter, slowly freezing in the kitchen, and goes to find Steve, leaving his thoughts behind.

\---

Steve is in his room, curled up on a chair and hunched over a drawing board when Tony finds him. The blanket is tucked around him, and Tony can't help but notice that Steve's wearing two pairs of socks, and they don't look like new socks, either.

"Hey," Tony says. "Got space under that blanket for two?"

Steve looks up from the drawing board, holding a stub of a pencil, and pulls his blanket tighter around himself.

"Okay," Tony says. "I don't have a peace offering handy, but to be fair I could warm that blanket up more."

Steve looks at him again, then puts the pencil into a thin box and gets up from the chair, moving over to the bed. He doesn't protest as Tony sits next to him, wrapping the blanket around him and scooting close enough so they touch.

He does protest when Tony starts to loop an arm around his waist to pull him closer.

"Don't."

"Right, of course," Tony says, putting his hands on his knees. "I'll try not to bleed on your blanket."

"Are you still bleeding?"

"In this cold? Nope." Tony says. "But I need that junkyard soon. This is intolerable."

"How are you planning to make a heater out of scraps?"

"Give me a box of them and I can build anything," Tony says dryly, opting not to explain that, even when Steve looks at him funny. "I don't need a power source. Run down or not the armor should have enough juice for a heater, and failing that we can run it off of me."

"The thing in your chest."

"Good eyes," Tony says cheerily, pretending that the reactor isn't glowing through the shirt. "It's essentially a battery."

"Why is it in your chest?"

"Steve, I shouldn't - "

"You told me all of that," Steve says quietly. Angrily. "But you can't tell me this?"

There is an implied _you told me about what I couldn't have and now you won't tell me_ this _for some petty reason?_ , and Tony can't exactly deny it.

"...Point," Tony concedes. "It's an arc reactor. Battery. There are shards of metal in my chest that would kill me if we took out this reactor, as it's powering a device that keeps them from piercing my heart. We don't need to worry about it running out of juice anytime soon. Got all that?"

"You want to use it on something else?"

"Two things at the same time. We don't need to worry about this running out."

"How much could you power with it?" Steve asks, looking thoughtful. Serious. Tony wonders if he has a plan.

"I've got a prototype at home that can power an entire skyscraper," Tony says mildly. "This one is comparable."

"An entire skyscraper."

"I am the only name in clean energy right now. I will be, I mean. The building is completely disconnected from the power grid. But we're getting off-topic. What are you thinking?" He almost, _almost_ ends that sentence with a 'Cap', something he can't say here. He’s thrown himself back into flippancy, into Stark Industries buzzwords and nicknames. He almost expects a camera to go off, and there isn’t even anyone to impress.

He's fortunate that Steve doesn't seem to notice that.

"We'll have to run it by Ms. Roberts, but there might be something you can work with in the basement. For heat."

"Ms. Roberts?"

"She owns the building," Steve explains, getting up and padding over to his closet. "Will any of my shirts fit you?"

"If you haven't noticed, I'm wearing one already. I'm fine." Tony says.

"It has a _skull_ on it."

"Oh, that?"

"And it's bloody."

"Dried blood, I promised not to bleed on your stuff."

"It's thin, too," Steve says, which is the first practical thing he's said about Tony's shirt. "You're probably colder than I am."

Tony can't refute that logic. He holds a hand out. "Just give me something big."

"I don't have much," Steve warns, and he passes a long-sleeved shirt over, which Tony eyes - it's nothing he'd wear if not for the circumstances, as it's a worn solid-color shirt with a hole in it, and he sighs before putting it on over his shirt. It's a tight fit, but nothing tears and he's got another layer of fabric between him and the biting cold in the apartment.

"Thanks." Tony blows on his fingers, then fumbles with the buttons.

"...Why the skull?"

"Black Sabbath. It's a band that won't be around for decades. They're good - " Tony slips on a button and swears, for two different reasons. "My music library was remote-access," he says mournfully, and that's it, he is building in a playlist into the next rendition of the armor's information databases.

He's lucky he hasn't got any music stuck in his head, itching to be heard. And if he's luckier, he'll stay that way.

Steve's giving him a bemused look as Tony closes the shirt, and he crosses his arms gingerly over his chest. The reactor still shines through, but it'd take more layers than he thinks Steve owns to fully block it. This will have to do.

"Show me this basement," Tony says. "And I'll bring heat back into this place."

Steve looks at him for a long moment, then just nods and gestures, leading him out.

\---

Tony lets himself back into Steve's apartment on his own time, more than pleased with himself. The tools and resources available had been outdated, but that was nothing to him. His ingenuity had pulled through and the results - why, he could feel them in the air.

Heat! Heat for the entire building, without burning anything for fuel.

He sweeps into the kitchen, then into the bedroom, intent on finding and bragging to Steve, as is his right after displaying incredible genius, but - there is Steve, bent over the drafting table once more, the world tuned out around him and the blanket drawn tight around him.

He hasn't even noticed the temperature, the jerk.

"Steve," Tony says.

His name does the trick: Steve blinks and looks up at him, brow creased in concern. "Is there a fire?"

"What - no!" Tony crosses his arms. "That is the fruit of my hours of labor."

"You fixed it?" Steve's expression changes almost immediately, to gratitude and surprise.

"I gave it an upgrade," Tony corrects. "Not only does it work, it works much more efficiently _and_ no one needs to worry about overheating. Rudimentary temperature control and sensors. We need to talk about challenges, because that was not one."

Steve covers his drawing with an arm, confusion showing on his face. "But it's safe."

"What? Of course, Steve. Give me some credit here."

"Thank you," Steve says earnestly.

"Hey, I like being warm too," Tony sheds the gratitude easily, stepping forward. "What are you drawing?"

"It's just a doodle."

"Let me see."

"No, Tony." There's that Captain tone again, stern and nearly hostile, and Tony backs off, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Jeez, fine." He'd push, but there's something telling him not to. Something he's probably reading from Steve's mood. He doesn't analyze it yet, instead stepping over to the bed to sit on it.

One problem about his circumstances, solved. Dozens more to go, and he's still no closer to finding a way home.

Pepper must be worried sick, he thinks. He corrects himself: Pepper must think he's dead.

That draws him up short. They all must think he's dead. It had occurred to him earlier, but he hadn't...the extent of it hadn't hit him. They think he's dead. No one will even think to come and save him, JARVIS included.

But coming back to the point: they think he's dead. He wonders if that was Fury's plan, in telling him - but no, that bomb wouldn't have been deployed just to get rid of him, Fury couldn't have anticipated -

Paranoia, he thinks. It's out of place, but gives him a motivation. If Fury wanted him dead, and had put that bomb towards the City to arrange for that, then he'd just have to come back to spite him.

He grins to himself, denying the rest of his thoughts before they start.

"What is it?" Steve asks.

"Everyone I know thinks I'm dead," Tony says, and wonders at the echo there. He's talking to Steve, who in another life would be in the same situation.

"Because you're here?"

"Because of how I got here," Tony says. "Wait, no, this is not a continuation of story hour. Show me what you're drawing and I'll explain it. More importantly," he says, as there's no way Steve'll show him what he's drawing, "I have a plan for getting home."

"You do," Steve says, and wow, Tony does not appreciate the dubious tone he’s got going.

"First," Tony says, slightly affronted, "I get my hands on the materials necessary to build a functional time machine. Which, before you complain, is completely possible. I'll need to run some calcula- " He stops. Damn. Right. "I get these materials," he starts again. "Then I build a primitive computer to help run these calculations so I can build a functioning time machine."

Steve raises an eyebrow, rubbing his hands together idly. The blanket has slipped down around his shoulders, to Tony's relief. It's warm enough in here for that.

"You didn't follow any of that, did you," Tony says, narrowing his eyes.

"How are you going to build a computer out of scrap from a junkyard?"

"You don't even know what a computer is."

"No, but it sounds complicated, and scrap metal - "

"I can do it."

Steve stares at him, then crosses his arms. "How?"

"We'll just have to see, won't we?" Tony asks. "I can adapt portions of my armor to help with this. Put a little faith in my technical skills, will you?"

It occurs to him belatedly that Steve simply has no idea who he is.

"Steve," he says, all business. "I can't blame you for doubting me, much as I'd like to, but this is an insult. If I can't build a computer with those handicaps, then I took more blows to the head than I thought, and there's probably brain damage we'll need to worry about."

"You're awfully confident."

"That armor I was wearing? I _built that_. Designed everything about it, down to the color scheme. If it weren't banged up I'd present the armor as the best thing I've ever made." And that hits too close to home. "The point is, I can do this in my sleep. Quit doubting me."

From Steve's expression he has a feeling he'll need to present proof before Steve believes him, but okay, that's fine. Just another challenge.

Tony gets up from the bed, plucking the blanket from Steve's chair. "I am going out."

"You can't."

"Why not?"

Steve frowns and points to the glow through Tony's shirt, and right. That. "You're still injured, too."

"If you're about to insist I spend the day in bed, I'm throwing you out," Tony says, putting the blanket over his shoulder. "I wouldn't be going far."

"At least stay in," Steve says. "I don't want you freezing to death out there."

"I can't wait around here," Tony says. "There are lots of things waiting for me at home, and I can't leave them hanging."

"They think you're dead."

"That too." Tony says with a bitter laugh. "I can't be late to my own funeral."

"That wasn't what I - " Steve shakes his head. "You have _time_ to let yourself heal before you run off to the future and get yourself into more trouble."

"How do you know I'd get into trouble?"

"How long would it take you to repair that armor?"

"There isn't going to _be_ anything that big again," Tony says. "Not for a while. Not from that source."

"My question."

"Not long. It might be faster to skip ahead to the next Mark." Tony shrugs. "I don't need you to babysit me, Steve."

"I'm not babysitting you."

Tony rolls his eyes and smooths out the bed, putting the blanket back on it. "Do you want to come with me?"

There’s a beat, and Steve’s voice is tight when he finally says, "what?"

"To the future." Tony glances over to where Steve is sitting rigidly straight. "I didn't say I was going to my future immediately. I don't know if I could get there with just a time-traveling machine, and to work on a dimension-hopping machine - I want the supplies the future will have available. You're welcome to come with me."

"You want me to abandon..."

Oh, good. He's gotten Steve angry.

Tony meets his eyes and lays down the line: "Offer's open. Take it or leave it - you have until I leave to decide."

\---

Tony quickly gets used to the idea that he won't be able to get home immediately. He scrounges for supplies and dismantles his armor over the course of two weeks, making runs out into the cold to look for anything - anything! - the war effort hasn't stripped bare.

He works around Steve, tries not to be a burden as he eats the man's food and sleeps on his couch.

They don't talk much. It's for the best. Tony's head is full of calculations and theories and every time he looks at Steve he sees a world he's trying desperately to return to.

He knows it hurts Steve to even mention his home.

Things continue apace, and one bright morning Tony runs the calculations and flips a switch and tightens a screw and lo, behold!

He hears the front door, and just barely manages to contain his excitement, because it is _working_. There are a dozen safety concerns he can't be completely certain of, not without tests, but that is not the point, the point is he could feasibly take himself to the future _right now_ and he'd be able to go pilfer cellphones instead of bedsprings.

Then Steve walks in.

Steve's pale, dazed. Tony's first thought is that Steve's been shot, or is bleeding, but that's not it, he's unharmed.

"Steve?" Tony puts down his tools and rises from his chair, and notes how Steve barely looks at him. "Steve, what is it?" Real worry rises in him, and he tries to remember the date, tries to remember exactly what happened in his universe.

Steve sits in the chair Tony just vacated and puts his head in his hands.

"Bucky's dead," he says, barely audible.

_Oh_ , Tony thinks.

What does he _say_?

"He was in the 107th," Steve says, voice distant, empty. He's talking because Tony's there, not because he has anything to say. "His letter didn't get here last week. I found out that - France. They were in France, and they were wiped out, and no one made it home." His voice raises, something like anger breaking in. "No one - I could have been there."

When Steve looks at Tony with too much pain in his eyes, Tony can't say anything. He _can't_.

He can see where this is going and he doesn't know how to stop it from going there.

"I could have saved him, right?" Steve asks, voice shaking. "If it had worked. I would have been there."

Tony wants _out_.

"Listen, I'm not qualified to answer that - "

Steve's staring at him, and oh, oh no no no. No.

He can't just _lie_ , not about this, not if he plans to take Steve with him, because the truth will hurt so much worse (but worse than it will now?) and either way he does not want this, he does not want to be responsible for that kind of soul-searing pain.

"Steve, I wasn't _there_ , and anyways it doesn't _matter_ , you wind up in the future without him - "

He doesn't realize what he's saying in time. He doesn't stop the flow of words in time.

Steve punches him and leaves, which is probably the best outcome Tony could have gotten out of that entire thing.

"...Damn," he says to himself.

He should probably go after him.

He looks at the kitchen, wishing there were something - some cookies lying around, or hot chocolate, or _something_ that wasn't canned soup or reserved for dinner, so he could treat Steve.

If they had alcohol he'd drink it, but he couldn't offer any to Steve. It'd probably kill him.

\---

In the end he goes after Steve, finds him seated out on the front step, freezing in the cold. Snow's built up on his hair and shoulders, and no, that's not good for him.

"Not losing you today," Tony says, and he hauls Steve up. Steve doesn't fight him, and just inside the door Tony brushes the snow off of him before beginning the climb to their apartment.

He's planning to sit with Steve as long as it takes, and to that end he guides Steve to the couch and fetches the blanket, tucking it around his shoulders and sitting next to him, quiet all the while.

"Tony?"

Tony looks over, tilted back against the couch, hands laced over his chest, just above the reactor.

"He was my best friend."

"I don't know what I'd do without mine," Tony says, understanding. Not in the same way, not like this, but it's enough.

"I don't have..." Steve trails off; starts again. "There's nothing here. Not for me."

"Not your art?"

Steve looks at him again, and shakes his head. "I'm taking you up on your offer."

Tony wants to protest, wants to explain that they should wait, and Steve should have some days to grieve, or _something_ , some length of time so he can change his mind.

"I don't want to stay here."

Tony...gets that. He nods. "Then let's go."

That gets Steve's surprise. "Now?"

"Yeah. I finished it before you came in. Let's go," Tony repeats, getting up. "No reason to stick around here, right?"

"Where - when are we going to?" Steve asks, getting up. From this angle all Tony can think about is how small he is, how frail he is compared to the soldier in his memories, and he gets up.

"My time. Two-thousand twelve. No idea if we'll land in the middle of a future I recognize or not, but they should have computers by then. Then you get to make a choice again," Tony says, giving him a smile. It's half-bitter, but that's alright. "Let's go."

"To the world of tomorrow," Steve says, and there's some bitter echo there, some meaning that Tony can't catch. He doesn't ask, instead putting together the last of his supplies (he can't leave the armor behind) and gesturing for Steve to pack as well.

They don't take much. That's fine. Let the landlady wonder about them, let her assume the worst.

It's a casual cruelty. He admits that.

Steve comes back with a bag and his jacket on, and Tony waits for the all-clear before he sends them to the future.

He doesn't get it.

"What now?" He tries to curb the edge of irritation in his voice, because he is literally a switch-flip away from modern bathrooms.

Steve looks at him, squaring his shoulders, and there's that sinking sensation again.

"We can save Bucky with that," Steve says.

Tony drops his head into his hand, groaning. He shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't as he does, but - but he is _still_ literally a switch-flip away from five-dollar hamburgers and Steve wants him to reprogram this thing to take them to Europe. Into a warzone. While Tony's still injured and Steve's too tiny to fight.

And _then_ they have to talk a soldier out of whatever mission he's going on that would get him killed, or time it so they pull him out a bullet's way or however he dies, and - this is the worst part - Tony has no idea _where_ Bucky dies.

On top of all that, the way he built it - reprogramming it to send them to Europe is impossible. Which will be fun to explain to Steve.

Steve's still looking at him with determination and hope in his eyes and Tony wants to throttle him.

"If I begin to tell you how much of a bad idea that is," Tony starts, watching stubbornness set into Steve's expression, "You're still going to tell me to do it."

"Right."

"And if I say this thing only has one charge in it?"

"You said in a worst-case scenario we could power it off of that thing in your chest."

Tony takes a moment to regret bringing his reactor up at all. "And if I say that it would break the timeline?"

"I don't care."

That's all of the easy options out, Tony thinks. Damn it. That’s all of the time-travel excuses, and Tony’s left grasping for some other way to ease the blow. He can sympathize, he really can. Just the thought of it being Rhodey, or Pepper... But he knows how this thing works, because he built it. And it’s not a free ticket to the timeline. Getting the calculations right so he gets them a) to the right time (to a specific date, too, instead of a fuzzy 'within these set of years'), b) to a place where they won't be embedded in rock when they arrive or in space because the Earth is miles away at this time and c) so they go intact with their stuff... There isn't a better way. He tells Steve the truth.

"Steve, this thing can't get us there," he says flatly. "I'm sorry."

"I don't believe you."

"I built it from scratch with the goal of 2012 in mind," Tony says, willing himself to be patient. "Used the armor as essentially a homing beacon. This entire thing is calibrated to take us there without sending us a hundred years ahead or five years off, and if we want to go to Europe in time to save him - I don't have the supplies or numbers for that."

Steve's gone white-knuckled on his bag, and Tony steels himself for the black mood that's sure to haunt Steve for the rest of the trip at least.

"I'm sorry," he says. "We don't have a choice. Ready to go?"

Steve looks down, then says "yeah," in the least enthusiastic voice Tony has ever heard, and he flips the switch.

As everything fades away he hopes that the building is still standing when they arrive.


	2. Interlude - Those left behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a possible budding relationship between Steve and Bruce, but remains gen throughout, so I didn't update the tags.
> 
> Expect the last two chapters up in the next few days, there will not be an extremely long wait.

Bruce comes back to himself slowly, sitting up in rubble. Dust cascades off of him as he moves to stand up, and memories filter in. Nothing specific, and it's all filtered through a haze of anger and green, but something surfaces: grief.

Bruce looks around at his surroundings, placing himself somewhere in New York (back where he started?) and otherwise lost. Why would the Hulk grieve?

What would the Hulk care about enough to _grieve_?

Steve is the one to approach him, making his way around cars and rubble to hold out a pair of pants that Bruce puts on gratefully.

"Good to have you back," Steve says, looking off to the side as Bruce closes his flies. "We got Loki."

There's something wrong, Bruce realizes. The way Steve's tone wavers. Something went wrong badly enough for the Hulk to feel it.

He looks up; there is no portal in the sky, no aliens swarming the city. They won, then.

"...Who did we lose?"

From the way Steve barely covers a flinch, Bruce knows he's guessed correctly. His stomach drops. That means...

"Stark."

He meets Steve's eyes for a moment, feeling raw and scraped out. Two incidents in one day, and he's exhausted. Steve's exhausted too, and he sees the same grief there. Whatever tensions had existed between him and Stark - death is the great equalizer.

He's thinking too much. Trying not to feel too much.

He works his mouth, licks his lips. Dry. "How?"

"There was a bomb," Steve says. "SHIELD - it was going to wipe out the whole city. Stark intercepted it and put it in the portal. We had to close it before he could get out."

He'll want to know more later, how they closed the portal and why it couldn't wait, but that doesn't change the facts: Tony's gone.

All of his advances and offers, nullified by - he feels himself getting angry, angry enough for the rage that is always under the surface to rear its head and has to take deep breaths. Steve grabs his arm anyways, concerned.

"Doctor?"

"It's - fine," Bruce says. It's not. He's breathing, going for numbness. "We've had enough of the other guy for one day."

Steve nods, grip on Bruce's arm easing, but he pulls his hand away. He's making sure, eyes searching Bruce's face, and Bruce tries to give him a reassuring smile.

"Mind letting go?" he tries, and now Steve lets go, stepping back, and Bruce looks at the glove print, wondering if it'll bruise.

"If you want to get going," Steve says, haltingly. "Before the media - "

"I don't have anywhere to go." It's easier to talk about the blunt truths of business instead of dwelling on what has happened. He knows he'll have to run, and as soon as possible. He should get out of the country before the chaos surrounding this attack lifts enough for people to call for his head again.

"I have an apartment," Steve says quickly. Bruce isn't sure if the Captain wants to offer this or not. "SHIELD set it up, but if you want to get your bearings..." He trails off, looking to the side.

Bruce studies his profile for a moment, deciding if he trusts the offer or not. It's the impulsive nature of it that wins him over, and he nods.

"Yeah, that'll be...I'll take you up on that." Not for long, he promises himself. Just enough to get his bearings.

There's something like relief on Steve's face as he accepts. A smile: strained, but genuine.

Bruce finds himself answering it.

\---

Steve loans him some shirts, all of which are far too big for him, and Bruce spends forever rolling up the sleeves before finally patting himself down and declaring himself dressed.

He looks at himself in the mirror and shakes his head. It's a strange sight, for more reasons than just his clothes, and he still doesn't know what to do with himself.

The thought resurfaces for the thousandth time, unbidden: Tony's gone. He pushes it aside, filling the place with other important thoughts: the world's still spinning on its axis and they have pieces to pick up. For once, the biggest messes weren't caused by the Other Guy.

Bruce turns away from the mirror and ducks into the little kitchen, wondering at the old-new feel to the apartment, and the impersonal touch to the decor.

Steve had no hand in arranging his apartment, he thinks. It makes sense, but he has to wonder at SHIELD's taste - his nerves will not settle.

"Bruce?"

He turns, wringing his hands together unconsciously, and looks up at Steve, who has returned from his own course of freshening up.

"Thanks for the shirt," he says, meaning thanks for more than that. Steve just nods and goes past him, opening up the fridge and taking out bread and supplies.

"I don't have much," Steve says. "Grocery shopping is still..." He makes a gesture with a knife before dipping it into peanut butter.

Bruce gets it. He keeps his distance (as much as can be given in the small kitchen) and instead looks at the counters, at the thoroughly bland spice rack and at the small calendar hung up next to one window: the pictures are of bland tourist locations, and it occurs to Bruce that the year is probably what stands out to Steve, when he looks at it.

A mistake in SHIELD's home decor, or deliberate? He suspects the latter.

Steve sets the sandwiches out, a pair for the both of them, and caps the jars. Bruce sits at the table as Steve puts everything away, and then they eat.

It's quiet. Neither one of them has much to say, not after everything.

Bruce finds himself wishing more than once that there was a possible way that Tony might have made it. That someone got something wrong, or that Steve is lying for some ill-defined reason, but it's all wishes, nothing true.

Nothing solid for science to stand on, he thinks bitterly.

"Does it taste alright?"

"It's fine," Bruce assures. "I'm preoccupied, that's all."

Steve nods, offering him a smile that Bruce can tell he means as reassuring, but Bruce knows that expression too well: self-blame.

"You couldn't have changed what happened," Bruce says, a platitude that he has never liked; he uses it because there is nothing else he can say, and he can't let the moment go silently.

"I could have waited," Steve says. "Closing it was my call. I could have waited."

"Why didn't you?" There is no blame in his tone, and he cannot lay blame at Steve's feet for the call. He will not. Steve can do that on his own, justified or not.

"There was a flash," Steve says, tone going distant. "I was watching - he carried the bomb in, and I saw the explosion. If the bomb was strong enough to wipe out the city - if any of the force of it escaped the portal - " His voice is halting.

Bruce holds up a hand, palm out.

"You made the right call."

Steve looks at him then, expression open and Bruce _gets it_. He has not been through what this man has been through, but he has a baseline, a common occurrence that brings him closer to understanding Steve than he had realized.

A common loss, with the blame laid squarely on their shoulders, deserved or not.

Bruce lets himself close that distance and lean forward enough to touch Steve's arm and grip it. Not too much pressure - not that he could harm Steve.

"You made the right call." He repeats this, holding Steve's gaze.

Steve nods, and Bruce lets go, pulling back to his space, tugging his glasses off for a moment to set them next to the plate.

He eats then, safely retreated back to the distance he has to maintain in all things.

Steve, to his credit, doesn't say anything and lets them eat in peace.

\---

Bruce doesn't leave when he should. Instead he sleeps in an unfamiliar bed and has breakfast with Steve and borrows Steve's notebooks, trying to write notes to leave on the kitchen table when he does leave and never managing to finish any of them.

Steve asks him for how-tos on using his laptop and leaves him alone except at meals, and Bruce wonders how much of the avoidance is Steve giving him space, and how much is Steve needing the space to himself.

Then there's a day when both Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton visit, unsurprised to see him there, and that's - awkward.

Clint holds a hand out to him, says it's nice to meet him when he's not all big and green.

"That's...thanks?" Bruce tries. "Hawkeye, right?" He'd watched the news, at least scanned the reports to see what the world thought they had done.

Clint nods, and looks pleased that he's been remembered. "Clint Barton."

As loose and easy as he tries to come off as, Bruce can't help but feel uneasy around him, if only for the well-hidden grief ( _he lost someone_ ) and the measured levity he brings into conversation.

But Steve trusts him, gives Bruce a nod when he looks over, and Bruce doesn't wring his hands quite so much around Clint.

Natasha, on the other hand, is unfailingly polite and on business, and she lets him know in no uncertain terms that SHIELD will finance a return to India, if he wants to go, but yes, of course: there is an implied 'they're keeping an eye on you.'

He's on their payroll now, and he's not certain he _can_ get off, even if he wanted to. It's the same for all of them, he knows.

Which brings up an uncomfortable echo, but that's not relevant here and now. So he doesn't bring up Tony Stark, and instead they give pleasantries. If there's another attack, another place where a little worse is needed - well, they'll be there.

What gets him, though, what draws him up short as they're leaving is this: "I don't think I'm going anywhere yet," he says to Natasha on her way out.

She glances to Steve and back and nods, looking something like relieved.

"Take care, doctor."

He nods, wanders off to make lunch (wonders briefly why he doesn't invite them to it, but now is not the time), and _stays_.

\---

They've saved the world from terrorists with ray-guns and Bruce leans into Steve during the entire ride home, trying not to nod off and wishing for pants instead of blankets the entire time.

It should worry him that it's easier to Hulk out than it should be, that he thought of Tony and how they're missing two vital members of the team (one living in a far-off land and one dead) and how easily the anger took, but he's exhausted now that it's over, too tired to worry.

It's with relief that Bruce stumbles into their apartment, and he doesn't make it to the bed, instead finding the couch first, and he's asleep before he thinks to apologize to Steve.

He wakes up to find himself covered with more blankets and to find Steve seated nearby, sketching, and it doesn't take a genius to guess at what he's drawing.

Bruce doesn't mind. He yawns into the cushion and stretches before scrambling to catch the blankets he dislodged with the movement, covering his shoulders again.

"Good morning," Steve says, quietly amused.

"Good morning," Bruce answers. His glasses are on the coffee table, set on top of a folded pair of pants and a t-shirt, and Steve is already getting up to give him privacy to change. "You can stay," Bruce says, not reaching for the clothes yet.

Steve hesitates before he sits back down, and reopens his sketchbook.

Bruce watches as Steve draws, thoughtful.

"Do you think we'll see any action in the next week?" he asks, wondering now if he's thinking of leaving.

"Probably not," Steve says, glancing at him.

"Can I see?"

Steve nods and gets up, bringing the sketchbook to Bruce, who has to take his glasses from the table and put them on before he takes it. The sketch is rough and the shading uneven - it's clearly unfinished - but Steve is more skilled an artist than Bruce knew, and he can see himself in the pencil lines.

It's the subject matter that makes him take pause, the almost peaceful expression he sees drawn on his face, and he knows that Steve has no guile in him, and that he would not draw anything but what's there.

Bruce holds the sketchbook out to Steve, idly pushing his glasses up his nose, and when he finds himself answering Steve's uncertain smile he knows that he has a problem.

Steve may not even realize what he's doing to Bruce, but - all of a sudden it hits him, that Steve let him into his home as a teammate, that Steve let him stay as a friend, and that Steve drew him as an intimate gesture.

No, he thinks, sitting up and keeping the blankets around him, no. Steve knows what's happening here. He may not be conscious of it, but unless one of them pulls the brakes on this, establishes boundaries - Bruce thinks of the apartment on impulse, thinks that he likes this place too much to let the Hulk happen to it.

"I can go start breakfast," Steve says, closing the sketchbook, and Bruce nods mutely, still caught by the storm of his own thoughts.

Bruce lets him leave and reaches for a shirt, worried.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony hates the world of tomorrow already. Hates it. _Hates_ that he didn't get some roadsigns before cheerfully sending them off to the glorious year of 2012.

Why? Because he comes to on an _expressway_ and has to save Steve from near-certain death before he can do anything else, and then everything goes topsy-turvy and _painful_ and he blacks out.

The next time he comes to, there are three nasty facts he has to face:

1) He's injured. Again. He wasn't completely healed from the Chitauri, and this just makes things _worse_. When he gets home he is eating a million hamburgers and getting himself the world's most indulgent bath, that is _law_. He has decreed it so.

2) He's in a hospital. The paperwork alone is going to be a nightmare.

3) He's in a hospital in the future, where there may or may not be a version of himself running around, which means he's just made a media mess for alternate him to clean up after.

Then he opens his eyes and gets a look at the room, and there's another nasty fact for the roster.

"Oh, hi," he says to himself.

His - what term does he use? clone? alternative self? clone, he decides, for now - clone has his arms crossed over his chest, and a darkly pensive look on his face. He takes in details: there is no ring of light in his clone's chest, there are imperfections in his expression that he recognizes from long nights of overwork, and there are sunglasses hanging off his fingers.

If clone-him left the hospital right now, Tony has no doubt he'd put on the sunglasses and a smile and greet any paparazzi as if they were his best friends, just like he himself had done in the past.

"I have an explanation for this," Tony says, moving to sit up. "Where's Steve?"

"Waiting for me to let him back in," clone!him says, eyes locked on Tony's chest.

There's nothing for it but an excess of the truth, Tony decides. "I'll start from the top. I'm Tony Stark, the highway was a mistake, and when I went time-traveling I didn't have the technology or supplies on hand to run the kind of tests I needed to for safety. Steve's from the forties, I'm from this year, except from another universe, and that's - I really hate time-travel, I think you get it. I'm here because I need working computers to build a - "

"Stop."

"Excuse me?"

"I'd believe you, but you slipped up," clone!Tony says, tone flat. "Steve Rogers died in '43. Pneumonia."

"Yeah, I broke the timeline," Tony says, finally sitting up (and oh is his body complaining about that). "Sorry, I didn't mean to save him. It just so happens that I did, and I offered to let him come when I left, so here we are."

It's a lot to swallow, but it's him. Has to be. He's never been one to deny the truth in front of his eyes, and instead he'll want to know _how_ , and _why_.

"How did you get there in the first place?"

Right on cue. Tony examines his fingers. "Tesseract-powered portal closed while I was in it. Dumped me in the wrong time and universe. Fun, huh."

There are at least four things for his other self to jump on, and Tony has no doubt that every single one of those points has been thought over before his clone says "Tesseract?"

"Does the Red Skull mean anything to you?" He doesn't let his clone answer, taking the blank look speak for itself, and goes on. "Then no, you're not going to know what it is. It's an energy source. Unlimited power, all that jazz. Alien in origin, to boot."

Way, way too much information, he thinks. Tone it down.

Except that something like recognition is beginning to dawn in his clone's eyes, and he _wonders_.

"My turn. Does the name Iron Man mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does," Tony says, studying 'himself', frowning. What's he missing? He can't help but wish for a phone, a chance to get at google and scan the headlines. "That's me. You too."

Ah, that's earned him a reaction: a tic, anger crossing across his clone's face.

"No. Not me." A pause, a lifted eyebrow. "Sorry to disappoint. You're not going to like a lot of things you'll see here."

"Then we'll fix it," Tony says, because that's what he _does_ , grievous injuries or not. Something he thought a week ago, when he was checking on Steve in the middle of the night to make sure that coughing hadn't killed him off.

Wait, he thinks. Steve? Dead? In the same year Tony found him in? In _winter_?

Oh, hell. That's a nice, pleasant thought to wake up to. That if he had shown up a month later, there wouldn't be a Steve to argue with him.

"It's not that easy."

"It never is," Tony says, and encourages his thoughts to move elsewhere. "How soon until I can get out of here?"

"I have more questions."

"Not what I asked," Tony says.

"You're lucky you're not dead right now," says his clone, and Tony sighs. Those kind of injuries, natch.

"I've been through worse."

"The doctors confirmed that. I wouldn't be surprised if they kept you here for another week at least."

Tony shifts, feeling all of the hurts and complaints, and nods. He doesn't expect any help in trying to check himself out, and more importantly he needs this version of himself to agree to lend him his lab. He wants to get _home_.

So, again: an excess of honesty. Best policy, if he knows himself. Get him interested, get him to help.

"I need a computer and the supplies so I can build a dimension-hopping device," Tony says frankly. He's itching to get to a computer the more he thinks of it - a chance to use a device more complicated than a wrench, a chance to surround himself with thoughts of numbers and designs and _science_ , in its purest form.

His clone sits back, and that's when Steve comes on in, looking as fiercely angry as he can while being so small, and Tony can almost see the faded overlays of an angrier Steve, laying into him with insults that cut too sharply.

So much has happened since then. He'd like to forget this piece of their history again.

"I said fifteen minutes," his clone is saying.

"He should be _resting_."

"I am resting," Tony says, and belatedly goes to lie back down before Steve takes matters into his own hands.

"You're hurt."

"Again," Tony says, sighing. "The army excuse was a lot more fun, all things told. It's not impressive to get injured by a _car_."

"Army." His clone says, and honestly? He's too serious. Needs to loosen up, in Tony's opinion.

"Long story," Tony says. "I can't tell you if it happens here or not without more information."

"Tell me what it is."

Tony looks at Steve, then at himself, and he'd throw his hands up but his arms are just as injured as the rest of him.

"Here," he says. "The full, long story." And he tells it to them. Everything. Loki stealing the tesseract, Germany, the Helicarrier, (something goes still in his clone's face when he mentions Bruce and the Hulk, something that Tony wants to chase up but can't, not yet) - he leaves out Coulson. It's not relevant, as much as it stings to leave Phil out. Instead he explains the Chitauri, the portal, Loki trying to use his stick on him, assembling.

Everything.

He hadn't told Steve about the nuke, actually.

"You - " Steve steps forward, then back, stunned. "That's why you're here."

"Best place for the nuke," Tony says, not looking at either of them. "If it torched the city..." He can't think of it. Good thing it never happened.

"Eight million people," his alternate self sums up.

"When I get home, I'm disarming SHIELD," Tony says idly. "They didn't have a reason to deploy that. At all."

"You weren't expecting to get home," Steve says suddenly, and Tony doesn't miss the flinch from his clone. Something about all of this is triggering more self-hatred than usual for him, and Tony brings himself up short. Could it be...?

His alternate self doesn't have a ring of light in his chest.

"Does the name Yinsen mean anything to you?"

The other Tony’s face gets strange, pinched, but he shakes his head. Tony leans back into the pillows and understands.

"Stark Industries is still in the weapons business," Tony says flatly.

"You fly around in an arsenal and you _aren't_?" His alternate self has gone on defense, which means Tony has struck at the heart of the matter, that his alternate self understands all-too-well, that even without Yinsen he's realized his mistake.

"Stark Industries is completely out of the weapons business," Tony says, calmly. "The army threw a fit. On the other hand, I'm the only name in clean energy right now, and there are plenty of other ways to find sources of revenue."

Okay, maybe this is a bad place to spout the company line. But he _is_ proud.

"Then explain Iron Man."

"Privatizing world peace," Tony says. "Hell of a thing, isn't it?"

It seems he's gone and struck a nerve too far this time, as his alternate self gets up and stalks out. Tony can’t necessarily say he’s sorry to see him go at this point.

"Steve, sit," Tony says, gesturing to the chair that was just vacated. "No, don't foll - " He sighs, closing his eyes as Steve hurries on out after his clone.

That's just fantastic.

He settles back against the pillows, taking a minute to get his thoughts in order. There's plenty his alternate self isn't telling him, plenty that he's missed - where is his _armor_ \- and he glares down at himself, frustrated with the injuries that are keeping him from springing up and getting what needs to be done over with.

On the bright side, as he will actively look for silver linings: his painkillers are finally kicking in.

\---

Bruce's phone goes off when he's dismantling another project that he can't bear to work on and for a heartstopping moment he thinks it's an alarm. No one but Tony supervises his work here, but that doesn't stop the guilty fear that runs through him.

He picks up. "Hello?"

"Bruce? I need you to get out here." Tony sounds discomfited, and Bruce doesn't want to speculate as to why.

"Where am I going?"

Tony gives him an address - a _hospital_ , and for a moment Bruce sees a gaping hole in Tony's chest - and sighs noisily. "Bruce, I'm fine - I've gotta go, just get here soon."

There's nothing for it but to go, and that's exactly what Bruce does.

\---

Images of an injured Tony crowd in his mind as he follows the instructions from the receptionist to a private room, and the dividing line between reality and dream crumbles as he looks into the room and sees exactly what he was afraid of: a Tony with a glowing circle in his chest, looking beat-up and swathed in bandages.

That Tony has enough energy to try dismantling one of the monitors near the bed without setting off any alarms (it looks like) isn't reassuring in the slightest.

"Tony?" He comes off as too-worried, but this is justifiable, he's allowed to be worried over Tony.

Tony looks up at him, confusion showing on his features before smoothing back into understanding. He gives him a tight smile, and gestures to the chair.

"Bad timing, Bruce," he says. "I'm not the Stark you're looking for. He stalked out about twenty minutes ago."

Everything ungels again in his mind as he processes that, and if it's a joke it is one that Bruce will take the hospital apart over.

"I'm from an alternate universe," Tony goes on, setting plastic casing to the side. "I'm not going through the whole long story again so soon, so sit back and hang tight until my clone gets back. Also, before you ask, it's not as bad as it looks. A day, two, then I can get out of here and work on finding a way home."

Bruce wordlessly takes a seat, leaning forward in the chair, hoping that this Tony is telling the truth, that his Tony is fine, and not - he doesn't have a better word for it - crazy.

He can only hope that whatever caused these injuries (that reactor, shining from his chest) couldn't drive him over the edge, so that he'd believe in the dreams.

Tony offers another smile and reaches into the electronic guts of the machine, extracting a few wires.

For a long moment there's silence as Bruce watches him work and as thoughts circle in his mind, then Tony abruptly holds a hand out.

"Phone."

"What?"

"I need your phone," Tony says.

Bruce is not in the habit of denying Tony anything. He hands him the phone.

"Good man," Tony says, tapping away at the device. "No chance I can talk you into smuggling me supplies? No? Your Tony has a - oh, hi! Done throwing a fit?" He looks over at the door, and Bruce turns, attention caught by the presence of _his_ Tony Stark.

Bruce gets up, eyes drawn immediately to his Tony's chest, and relief rushes through him at the sight: no light, no circle in that chest.

"Bruce, you made it," Tony says, ignoring his injured lookalike on the bed. "I thought you should see this."

"He means me," the other Tony says, still tapping at Bruce's phone. "This place sucks, by the way, you were not kidding."

"Is he from," Bruce doesn't know how to ask. He doesn't know what to think when his Tony nods.

This time when he looks at the injured Tony on the bed he has an inexplicable sense of rage, an anger that could (maybe) wake up that monster he dreamt of. They've been _trying_ to fix their mistakes, to be the better people they dreamt of, and this Tony's casual judgment _hurts_.

Bruce has to stop thinking of him as Tony, because looking at that ring of light bleeding through the hospital gown is starting to make him queasy. He's not on a first name basis here, this isn't the man he knows. He decides to go with Stark, at least internally - it's accurate, but impersonal, and he needs every scrap of a barrier right now.

"He's been time-traveling, too," his Tony says quietly, drawing his attention. "Brought back a guest."

"Who?"

Tony just nods to the doorway, where...it takes Bruce a moment. There hadn't been any photographs of him, and all he has to draw on are dreams.

Steve isn't the man he dreamt of, short and sickly-looking instead of tall and muscular, but Bruce finally places him all the same.

"...Steve Rogers?" He asks, tone hushed. Is this what Stark is used to? Performing casual miracles?

"I don't think I know you," Steve says, giving him a polite smile. He offers his hand, and Bruce remembers to take it in time.

"Wait, everyone stop," Stark speaks up, phone lowering. "How the hell do you guys know him if he supposedly died in '43?"

"Did you just get that?" Tony asks, amusement in his voice.

"You shut up and give me answers." Stark leans forward, staring at them, and his grip on the phone is tight.

"We don't owe you anything," Tony says, and Bruce can see anger overriding sense here, and maybe it would be better to tell them. He touches Tony's arm, a careful gesture.

"You do," says Stark, and Bruce wonders if he knows - if he _understands_ the kind of anger he's inspiring in them.

"Tony," Bruce says, maintaining a controlled calm. "We've had dreams about where you come from." And it's as ridiculous to say as he was afraid it was. "We haven't been there, but we know how it could have been."

That catches Stark off guard, and to Bruce's own surprise Steve's expression cycles to bitterness.

"How?"

"We don't know," Bruce says, but Tony cuts in.

"Some kind of machine that you built. With Bruce."

"Then it wasn't me," Stark says, putting the phone down, and it's almost ridiculous: he's covered in bandages and Bruce's instincts as a doctor are telling him to let him rest, but at the same time Bruce remembers a dream more vividly than his own memories. He remembers a Tony as casually arrogant as this one, one used to the impossible. The Tony before him could be the same one he dreamt of, except for the all-too-human injuries.

And here he is telling them that it _wasn't him_.

He can be forgiven for laughing, even a muted, muffled one.

"How - " Tony starts, taking a step forward, and Stark holds up a hand.

"I'm not from that universe," he says. "I don't know what kind of device I'd be working on, but it has to be from either another universe or the future of my own, because Bruce and I haven't had a chance to work with each other on anything other than tracking the tesseract."

"There are two universes where the serum worked," Steve says suddenly.

"Probably more," Stark says, putting his hand back in his lap. "Current theory goes that there are infinite universes out there, with as many variations as you can imagine. Which means there are just as many universes where it didn't work, and more where the World Wars didn't happen at all. _Infinite_ universes." He sighs, shrugging. "And I get to build a device that sends me back to the exact one I left."

"If we let you in the labs." Tony has crossed his arms, and Bruce knows that for all of his affected hostility that Tony is intrigued. He called Bruce here, after all.

"Which you will, because it's too tempting to pass up."

They stare at each other, taking and retaking the measure of the other, searching for differences in character, and Bruce takes the moment to leave Tony's side and go to Steve's.

"Can we talk?" he asks, quietly. "Outside? They'll probably dicker over terms for a while."

"We're not - "

Bruce ignores the both of them in favor of Steve's nod, and leads him out of the room.

\---

They find an uncrowded waiting room and sit at a quiet corner. It's not exactly private, but it's as close as they'll get here without involving Tony, and it is Bruce's professional opinion that Steve needs some distance from the man - either one - right now.

"Thanks," Steve says, sitting slightly hunched.

"How long has it been since you got here?" Bruce asks, quietly.

"Not very long," Steve says. "I've been trying to stay with him - I don't have anywhere else to go."

Bruce nods, understanding. "Until they're sorted out, you can stay at my place," he offers, an impulsive gesture that he doesn't think he'll regret. Steve's too small, too frail to turn out, and putting him into Tony's care...that would be too much, he thinks.

"I don't want to impose," Steve starts, and Bruce gets that too.

"You won't," he says. "It's not a very impressive place, but it's got to be more comfortable than trying to sleep in these chairs."

Steve flushes and nods, looking away. "Thanks."

Bruce leans back into his chair. He's got a lot to digest, but that goes for all of them - he can picture Tony at work in the lab trying to design this machine Stark assumes he'll be able to slap together. (Does he assume it? Is Bruce underestimating him, or does confidence just come to him naturally?)

"You said," Steve starts, and clears his throat. "Dreams?"

"Of another universe," Bruce says quietly. He hadn't told anyone but Tony. "You were taller."

Steve gives a bitter laugh at that, then catches himself, breathing carefully. Bruce looks at him, wondering: the serum would have cured all of this. He doesn't even know what kind of problem Steve's dealing with right now. Not yet.

"I wish," Steve mutters.

"I wish that those dreams weren't real somewhere," Bruce admits to him.

"Why?" Is that surprise?

"I turn into a monster over there," Bruce says softly. "A literal monster fueled by anger. And it's still the better place."

That seems to effectively break the flow of conversation."I'm sorry," Steve says finally, subdued, a note of helplessness in his voice, and Bruce just gives him a smile for it.

"I've got some hope for this place," Bruce says after a pause, looking up at the ceiling. That was too much to tell him, he thinks. "You're here now. Who's to say the rest of them aren't?"

"You'd have to introduce me," Steve says. "I wouldn't know anyone."

Bruce carefully pats his shoulder, thinking that this is now Tony's area, to reassure him with that confidence of his. (The confidence all of them have.) He tries his own approximation of it now: "We'll make you a home here."

(Who is he to offer anyone homes? Again, that’s Tony - a place in the lab, the faint spark of hope. Tony Stark is more home than he’s ever had.)

Steve gives him a careful smile back, and Bruce thinks that he's glad that this happened, that Steve's _here_ and _alive_ , and he forgives himself for his moment of unbridled optimism, for offering something beyond his control.

There is, of course, the answering cynicism to his optimism that speaks and says maybe, maybe this is a dream, and he will wake up and it will simply be another reality that's more real than his day-to-day life.

He doesn't pinch himself.

\---

"How's the future?" Tony asks some days later (weeks? he hasn't been keeping track of the date, has been half-asleep most of the time as his body finally realized it _could_ shut Tony down for healing, and he hadn't fought it) when Steve's settled into the chair by his bedside.

"It's busy," Steve says. There are plenty of experiences he's probably had that Tony will never hear about, and Tony still wants to know what Bruce's place is like, but it was an easy thing to realize and accept: Steve's making a home here, and Tony isn't included in it.

"Details, Steve," Tony pushes anyways.

Steve gives him an uncertain smile. "You're from this time, Tony."

"Don't play thick with me, come on. I asked for details." Tony has to bite back a comment about how Steve doesn't have the Capsicle defense here - that, he thinks, is a sure sign that he needs to get home. Soon. Now. Before he says something that gets him punched again.

Which isn't any guarantee he won't get punched when he gets home, but one thing at a time.

"What kind of details?"

"Steve," Tony sits up properly now. "Don't tell me Bruce put you on a couch."

Steve stares at him, then laughs, and it's not perfect, there are still imperfect edges in his voice, but Tony grins past that, and for a few seconds Steve's smiling with him.

"How did you know?" Steve asks, smile slipping back off of his face. "Did Bruce say anything?"

"If you're staying with him, it's not going to be a mansion," Tony says. "And you tried to put _me_ in your bed, when I wasn't the one liable to die from the cold. That, and Bruce wouldn't argue with you over this."

"He's good company," Steve says.

"Better than me?"

"Tony, I don't think you want me to answer that."

"Whatever. Bruce is a good guy." Tony tries not to falter at the sudden thought of his Bruce, the sudden worry of _what happened to him_ , but some of it must show, because Steve leans in, clearly concerned.

"What is it?"

"It's past time for me to go home, Steve," Tony says quietly. "That's all."

"I - " Steve stops, starts again. He's serious, dead serious, and Tony wants to deflect it, but it's too late for that, and he's still too injured to run. "I wanted to thank you."

"Me."

"For coming. You...saved my life. You didn't leave me alone, and you brought me here. Thank you."

"It's not going to be perfect here."

"I don't have anything back then."

"I'm - "

"Tony, can't you just accept it? I'm grateful. _Thank you_."

Tony coughs, lightly, then nods. "Uh, you're welcome." Not awkward at all. It's still too - too much that Steve's gratitude is genuine.

Steve's giving him a funny look - time for a change of subject, in other words.

"I talked the other me into guaranteeing me a spot in his labs," Tony says quickly. "Which means I'll have a day or two before I'm home free. We just need to talk the hospital into letting me go."

"You look better," Steve hazards, and Tony doesn't read too much into his expression.

"Yes, exactly. The other me will also get you an ID and money and everything you'll need to stop mooching off of Bruce, so - look, Bruce knows how to contact him, do that. He's not me, but who is? You're lucky he's not too much of a cheap knockoff."

"Tony, you're calling yourself a _cheap knockoff_ ," Steve says, and Tony can't help but laugh.

"He sounded like a lawyer for half the conversation, Steve. There's a stick made of serious up his ass and I don't care how bad it is here, if he can't laugh something's wrong. Ergo, cheap knockoff."

Steve doesn't shake his head or laugh or do anything Tony expects, which is a warning sign. He closes his eyes, shoulders slumping.

"...What?"

"Tony, you can't _say_ that. Not to them."

"Oh." Tony says, and sighs. "You've got it too."

"We're - " and that's good, that's something he should encourage, "not like you, Tony. We're not the people you know."

"You're close enough," Tony says, aware he's crossing more lines than he should.

"Don't do that," Steve says, looking at him, and there's genuine anger there. "Can't you see - no, you can't." The anger's gone as abruptly as it came, and Steve sighs. "We need to get you home. Before they overreact."

"Keep a lid on it, huh."

"Yes, Tony."

"Not making promises," Tony says, hands up. "But I'll get myself back as soon as I can."

"Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah."

He'll be honest with himself: he doesn't _want_ to see whatever Steve sees. He doesn't _want_ to get it. Not like they do.

Steve's right: he's not like them.

"So," Tony says, moving them along. "Want to help me up?"

"Sure," Steve says, and offers him a hand.

Oh, right, Tony thinks as he carefully swings himself out of bed and up. Steve's not like the Steve he remembers, and his grip is tight but the hand is weak and he's half afraid he'll pull Steve down on him whenever he uses Steve for support.

But together they get him up on his feet, and unless he falls down on the way out he is _out_ of here.

\---

_knock knock knock_

Bruce looks over at Steve (who is more at home in Bruce's kitchen than Bruce is at times) and rinses his hands. "I'll get it," he says, and Steve nods as he puts the last dish in the drying rack.

Whoever's here hasn't timed their visit very well, Bruce thinks as he goes to get the door. He's expecting a solicitor, someone trying to buy his vote, a Jehovah's Witness. Someone to shut the door on and gripe about to Steve as they clean the last of the dishes and retire to their separate spaces.

He's not expecting Tony. Not _his_ Tony, who comes to his apartment rarely and never at a decent hour.

Bruce almost closes the door in surprise, but manages to step back instead. "Come in?" (Not that Tony has ever needed an invitation, this is only a courtesy.)

"Hi, Bruce," Tony says, stepping inside. He looks around, gives Bruce the impression that he has never seen the apartment from this spot, and lets Bruce close the door behind him. "Where's Steve?"

Oh.

Bruce isn't surprised, he really isn't. "In the kitchen. We were finishing..." He doesn't bother to finish his sentence, instead following Tony and shaking his head at thinking that Tony would be here for any other reason. He spots the manila folder under Tony's arm now, and nods to himself. That explains the _why now_.

"How much have you told him?" Tony asks, abruptly stopping and turning to face Bruce, almost nose-to-nose to him as Bruce startles into a stop.

"He didn't want to know much of it," Bruce says, careful. "Tony," he starts, and tries to impress upon him how serious this is. "Something happened to him before he came here. Something big."

"I can guess," Tony says, and so can Bruce. He searches Bruce's face, then nods. "I'm not out to hurt him."

Bruce doesn't need to say anything else, as Tony understands, better than his injured alternate ever would. There may still be a mistake, some well-intentioned hurt, but Steve is not a child and neither is Tony.

Steve's wiping down the counters when they enter, and Bruce has a seat at the little table instead of blocking the doorway, watching them.

"Mr. Stark," Steve says in surprise, immediately moving to rinse the rag and his hands. "What are you doing here?"

"Again, you can call me Tony," Tony says, hands in his pockets while Steve dries his hands. "And I came to drop this off." He shakes Steve's hand when he offers it, then puts the folder in Steve's hands. "Identification, credit card, the works. You're a legal U.S. citizen again."

Bruce had been waiting for that, and lets himself smile. There had been things only Stark could do, and there are things only Bruce may be able to do, but this is something only Tony's vast resources and connections could pull off.

"I - " Steve blinks, opening and going through the folder, eyes wide. "You did this?"

"Of course I did," Tony says, and there's a smile Bruce likes. "You can go see a doctor now, by the way."

"Going as soon as possible would be better," Bruce says. There's been a reason he's asked Steve to stay inside for most of the time, a reason beyond the tendency in Steve he noticed early on for the man to stand outside, stare, and look utterly lost.

"I can't pay you back," Steve says, and Tony shakes his head.

"I don't want you to," Tony says. "This is the best use that money could go to, believe me."

"...Okay," Steve says, and sets the folder down carefully, closing it. "Do you want anything? A drink?"

"Sure," Tony says, having a seat near Bruce, a hand finding its way to Bruce's knee. "Coffee."

"This late in the day?"

"He's nocturnal," Bruce says. "Do you mind if I look?" He gestures to the folder, and flips through it while Steve re-negotiates Bruce's coffee maker. "Is this the original?" He asks Tony in an undertone, studying the ancient birth certificate.

"A good forgery," Tony says back in the same undertone. "It made it through the right offices."

"And they bought the year," Bruce says, studying the date that makes everything feel slightly fuzzy at the edges, as if he really were dreaming.

"I paid for it," Tony says with a shrug, and lights up as Steve hands the coffee over.

Then it's just them seated around the little table while Tony sips his coffee. For a moment it's surreal, enough to make Bruce blink and need to make himself stay where he is, enough to force him to try trusting that he's awake.

Steve, he sees, looks between them both and then falls into his usual introspective quiet, his mind going to darker places than here, and Bruce has yet to nail down where Steve goes or why.

There are a thousand and one reasons, and picking one - Bruce doesn't dare to try and guess.

Tony, however. Tony puts down his coffee and touches Steve's shoulder and says "I found these for you."

And he pulls a length of chain out of his pocket and drops a set of dogtags into Steve's hand.

Bruce leans forward slightly, curious but unwilling to ask, not while Steve goes pale and turns them over, reading the name stamped on them. Not when Steve trembles all over and Tony is the one to move forward and hug him.

Steve's frame shakes and Bruce might be hearing sobs, so he comes over, puts a hand on Steve's shoulder, another source of support, and this time the kitchen isn't fuzzy at all while he stands next to someone he thought was long-dead.

It's long minutes before Steve hiccups and calms his breathing and calms in the process, but Steve doesn't let go, nor does Bruce back up.

"It's going to keep hurting," Tony says quietly, and Steve nods, a jerky movement. He's clutching the dogtags so tightly his knuckles are white, and Bruce awkwardly pats Steve's shoulder.

Shot in France, Bruce thinks.

"How did you get these?" Steve asks, quiet.

"Dogtag return project," Tony says. "A woman's project to find as many dogtags as she can from the era and get them back to their families. I got lucky."

"...How did you know to..."

Tony's smile turns a little helpless, a little bitter. "In the dreams, you told me about your best friend. I didn't think you'd miss out on meeting him here."

Steve just nods, swallowing, and his grip loosens a little on the tags, but he holds them closer to his chest. "Thank you," he says, voice barely a whisper.

Tony lets go of Steve after a brief squeeze and scoots back, getting up. "I'd better go," he says, which Bruce takes to mean that he's leaving before Steve can be properly grateful, and this...Bruce decides not to let him go this time.

"Stick around," he says, surprised at himself.

"What?"

"Can you stay?" Bruce asks, and he doesn't have an excuse ready, he doesn't have any reason for Tony to stay beyond the fact that he wants him here.

Maybe some of Bruce's intent shows through: Tony looks at him like he's crazy for a moment, then nods. Just like that, and they have a guest.

"I'll need more coffee," he says, and Bruce has to stop Steve's motion before he gets up.

"I'm already up," he says, and goes to make the coffee for Tony. A cup of tea for himself and one for Steve, and he ferries the cups to the table.

In deference to Steve's mood they talk shop, discuss the idea of a JARVIS of their own, talk that likely goes over Steve's head but that's okay: Steve sips his tea and goes through the motions of looking through the paperwork, the dogtags still clenched in one hand.

"I want to pay him back," Steve says into a lull in the conversation, and Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose, looking at Steve. "I would have been dead, right? If he hadn't come."

"He's getting space in my lab to work on his ticket home," Tony says, knowing full well that's not enough for Steve.

"You don't need to pay any of us back," Bruce says. "I don't think he'd accept anything."

"No, wait, I've got it," Tony says, leaning in and opening the folder. He passes the credit card to Steve. "This is a credit card. It buys things for you, don't worry about the limit."

"I don't want to _buy_ anything for him," Steve says as he puts the card down, but Tony snatches it back up and pushes it into his hand.

"You're an artist. Have Bruce find you an art store, buy what you need, make something for him. He can't turn that down."

"Are...I'm not - "

"Modesty doesn't suit you, Steve," Tony says, cutting him off. "I've seen some of your stuff, I'd love to see more. And if you're about to start asking about content - "

"I have something in mind," Steve says, his turn to interrupt Tony. "Thank you."

"Don't," Tony says, waving a hand. "Go shopping instead, alright?"

"At this hour?"

"Steve, plenty of places are open later than this," Tony makes a show of checking his phone. "Only eight."

"We can go tomorrow," Bruce cuts in, getting up to refill his cup. "I have a sketchpad if you want to rough anything out."

"Bruce, you draw?"

"Not very well," he ducks out, going to fetch his sketchpad, and tries not to smile too much. It's surprisingly nice like this, and it's something he finds he wants to keep.

If he has a choice in the matter, that is.

He brings a pencil back as well, and passes them to Steve, stopping to refill Tony's cup when he holds it out to him. "Planning a long night?"

"Always," Tony says, taking it back. "Obie's getting antsy about those missile plans - we may have to do something about him and the rest of the board soon. They actually wanted me to _fire_ you, can you believe that?"

"They - "

"Fire him?" Steve sits up straight, torn away from the sketch he was beginning to form.

"Both of you chill," Tony says.

"He means relax," Bruce says, but he's just as rattled. Tony doesn't share this much, not about the company. Not unless they're alone, in the dark -

His eyes are drawn to Steve, and he gets it, all of a sudden.

Tony's gotten a push to reform his company in obvious ways, a big push that he can't worm around with subtle flaws or siphoning of money or developments in technology that would save lives.

A push in the form of Steve, sitting here _alive_.

"It might be time to fire him," Bruce says, picking up his drink, a pathetic attempt to hide his burst of courage.

"Bruce, he's not going to go quietly," Tony says, and he drums his fingers on the table. "It's time for it, though."

"Should I stay out of the labs?"

"Should I be hearing this?" Steve asks, and it brings a laugh from Tony, who leans forward to pat him on the shoulder.

"Don't make friends with reporters," Tony says, and leans back. "Speaking seriously, it'd be a bad idea for you to go telling anyone this: I'm planning to take apart my company and rebuild it from the ground up. It'll piss off a lot of people, but the long-term benefits will be worth it."

"Stark Industries develops and sells weapons," Bruce explains to Steve quietly.

"It won't," Tony says. "Not when I'm done with it."

Bruce gives him a glad, grateful smile. He wants to do more, to lean in and kiss Tony for finally making a decision - the _right_ decision - but Steve is there, and Bruce doesn't have anything to draw on to find out if they'd -

Tony springs up from his chair and kisses Bruce, quick and grateful and Bruce doesn't get time to pull him closer before Tony's sauntered over to the fridge to peek through it.

That confidence, he thinks.

Steve opens and closes his mouth a few times, and turns red.

Bruce almost pulls Tony over to explain, but sits with his tea and looks at Steve, serious. "It's legal."

"Are you two - "

"Yes," Tony says, and it's Bruce's turn to blush.

"Oh." Steve says, and takes a second before he resumes his sketching. "Okay."

"Do you have a problem with it?" Bruce asks.

"No," Steve says, and he's beginning to blush, and Bruce lets it go.

"Bruce, there is nothing but yogurt, wrapped sandwiches, and fruit in here. And eggs."

"There's rice in the pantry."

"Bruce," Tony turns to him, serious. "You desperately need to go grocery shopping."

Bruce sighs and raises his hands. "What are you looking for?"

He leaves Steve to sketch, making Tony a sandwich that won't be what he wants, and tries not to smile where Tony can see it. He tries not to think about how nice this feels, how domestic and happy it all is, and most of all he tries not to think that it's too good for the likes of them.

He's on the wrong side of waking for this, and he knows it will be a long time before he can shake off that conviction.

Then Tony leans into him and the feeling evaporates as Bruce soaks in the contact.

"It'll be done soon," he murmurs, and wonders at how nice the mundanity of daily life can be.

\---

The lab that Tony has to work in isn't his own. Sure, the layout is similar, and the tools are the same, but it is the single most unnerving place he has had to work in.

It's _quiet_. Too quiet.

For the alternate Tony is a soulless man and didn't keep Dummy when he built him, nor did he go on to make Dummy's siblings, and worst - the worst crime, as far as Tony's concerned - worst of all his alternate self didn't program JARVIS.

Tony is utterly alone in the lab. He's been trying to work in the silence, but it's been creeping up on him, and when his alternate self just up and left an hour ago everything got that much worse.

He's been trying to talk the computers into playing some AC/DC ever since.

Except, and this is the worst part, that the computers don't know who or what AC/DC is.

Neither does Google.

A sensation of dread creeps in as Tony continues to find no trace of the band. It can't be.

"It's worse than I thought," Tony says, shellshocked. "What the hell."

He sits back in the chair and stares at the screen, refusing to believe it.

"Okay," he leans forward again. "Black Sabbath."

Not all is lost: his searches turn up youtube videos of Black Sabbath, of Led Zeppelin, of all of his favorites.

Except for AC/DC.

He swears again, then begins to build himself a playlist, queuing up Iron Man first -

Footsteps. He whirls in the chair, hoping it's his alternate, ready to give him so much sympathy for a band his alternate self never knew he was missing.

It's not him, though. It's Rhodey.

"What are you doing here?" Tony asks as he gets his thoughts in order: it's not his Rhodey, it's the alternate's Rhodey. He doesn't know when his alternate will get back, if at all. He doesn't know if this was planned. He feels like he's been pushed out onto stage without a script or context.

He's got to make a few decisions, and fast: does he pretend to be someone he's not and potentially drive Rhodey off, does he tell the truth and convince Rhodey he's insane, or does he kick Rhodey out and definitely make a scene for his alternate to clean up?

"So it wasn't you who invited me to drop in at any time." Rhodey says, and Tony wants to jump up and say yes. "Thanks, Tony."

"No, no, it was my pleasure," Tony says, making a choice. "Come in, how ya been, the works. Talk to me, Rhodey."

He clears the screen as he does, exchanging playlists for calculations that should mean nothing to Rhodey.

This is the most unnerving meeting he's had during this entire trip, he thinks. He has to watch Rhodey for signs of what's changed, he has to figure out who he's talking to, and he's decided to run with the charade.

See, see that look? That's the one that means Rhodey is deciding exactly how much this visit is worth to him.

So Tony gets up, gives Rhodey his full attention.

"Drink?"

It's the friendly thing to do.

"What's going on, Tony?" Rhodey's serious, and Tony thinks 'ah'. "Why call me now? What do you want?"

"In case it wasn't obvious," Tony says, bending to get a water bottle, "I wanted to hang out with you. Bad for our friendship I know, but - "

"We're not friends, Tony."

Oh, that _stings_.

He holds out the water bottle, a peace offering. "We could be."

Tony is betting on a lot of things now, hoping he's read the signs right, trusting that he knows Rhodey. Even here.

There's a pause, and, as always, he has to grease the way: "I'm not looking for favors here."

Rhodey looks at him, at the bottle, and takes it. Whatever he's thinking Tony can only begin to guess at, but he uncaps it and has a drink.

It's a step. Tony hopes his alternate self appreciates what he's doing here.

"Why now?" Rhodey asks, re-capping the water bottle. Peace offer accepted, but he won't lower his guard. Never entirely, and Tony knows this from long years of experience.

"Why not now?"

Tony moves to lean against one of the workstations, crossing his arms. Rhodey's still trying to figure out his game, and Tony doesn't intend to give him anything beyond the genuine request for friendship.

It's a shame he doesn't have anything interesting to show Rhodey, he thinks. None of the inventions here are his, strictly speaking, and the one that is - he stops.

Rhodey's gravitated towards the workbench where Tony had set the bag of ruined armor parts and where the helmet was propped up, battered but no less imposing for it. He'd stripped most of the electronics from inside the thing, but still hoped to salvage the armor when he got home.

That aside. Rhodey reached out to pick up the helmet, and Tony had to fight to stroll over, not rush over.

"What happened to this?"

"Bad test flight," Tony says, which is technically true. "I'm not planning to follow up on the idea."

"Which was?"

"You're fishing," Tony says, and takes the helmet out of Rhodey's hands.

"I am fishing," Rhodey replies. "You said flight."

"You should've seen the bruises I got off of that one," Tony says, setting the helmet back down. "If you're going to start ragging on me for building something for myself, we need to sit down and have a long talk about how this is my lab."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Good," Tony says, and he offers Rhodey a grin before walking him over to the door. "I'll see you around. And the offer's still open, drop in anytime."

"I'll think about it, Tony."

"Great, see you."

And that's that. He's done his good deed for the day.

Tony closes the door behind him and thinks that his alternate self needs to get back so he can fill him in. Not immediately, though, not unless they want an incident. In a worst case scenario Tony can only hope that his alternate self catches on in time and explains that he's a Life Model Decoy and that he needs to get back to Mr. Stark immediately.

But until anything happens - Tony turns around, and the lab is _still_ quiet, and he has work to do.

\---

Bruce holds back a sigh when he comes into the lab the next day, finding Stark asleep at a workbench.

How he managed to fall asleep with that music playing Bruce will never know, and he can only picture the irritation on his Tony's face if he were here. Fortunately for them all he's not, off taking Steve to the doctor and out shopping, and Bruce is here to see that the labs aren't left in a state of ruin by the end of the day.

He goes to gently shake Stark's shoulder, and Stark comes awake with a start. He grips at Bruce's arm, pale, then regains himself and lets go, sitting back.

"Thought you were someone else," he says, rubbing his face. "What time is it?"

"Nine in the morning," Bruce says, sitting at his bench. They aren't too far apart, which might pose a problem if Stark needs that music to work.

"Ugh," Stark says, and he stretches, throwing his arms up and giving Bruce a flash of skin and bandages.

Bruce immediately turns to his console, face heating: his Tony had stayed the night. He'd even woken up to an occupied bed, which had been...nice.

"I can be gone by the end of the day," Stark says, derailing all of Bruce's thoughts.

"It can be done that quickly?"

"I had half the design done by the time I got out of the hospital," he says, shrugging. "And these computers speed things up even more."

"Don't go without seeing Steve one more time," Bruce says.

"Why?"

That's something Bruce isn't surprised by, that Stark would have slipped out on them like that. "Because he wants to thank you."

"He doesn't have to," Stark says, turning on a soldering iron.

"He still wants to, Tony," Bruce says. He rolls his seat closer, watching as the pieces are fit together with deft hands. "I want to thank you."

"For bringing him? You're welcome," Stark says absently.

Bruce raises a hand, then stops, watching him work. This isn't a barrier he needs to break down, and he's not sure he even could, not in so short a time. If Stark doesn't want his gratitude - he has it anyway, but Bruce won't interrupt him.

"Don't leave without seeing him," Bruce repeats, and slides back to his station.

"Hey," Stark says, abruptly. "I need your phone."

"Again?"

Stark holds a hand out, the iron set aside. Bruce sighs and passes it over.

Bruce watches and then listens in as Stark calls someone, and doesn't bother to hide that he's eavesdropping. He even gets a wink for it.

"Hey, it's me. ... I stole Bruce's phone, what did you _think_ I did - no, stop, I need you to listen. It's about Rhodey. ... Yes, I said Rhodey. He came by last night. No, I didn't scare him off. Made it clear that I wanted to be friends, I wasn't looking for favors, all that. ... No, he didn't. He asked about the armor - I had the helmet out, don't think that, I know you're thinking it. I told him it failed a test drive - not a word - and that it was something I made in my own time. And that's it. I think you can salvage things from there. Try not to piss him off too much, alright? He's a good guy."

Bruce doesn't know what to think.

"...Tell Steve I said hi, by the way. ... What? Of course that's where you are, you're not here." Stark pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, and sighs. "Best case scenario, I'm out of your hair tonight. Worst case scenario, I rip a hole in reality and we get to fight aliens tonight."

"That's not reassuring," Bruce says, and there’s that wink again.

"Yeah, yeah. See you." Stark hangs up and tosses the phone back, grinning. "He doesn't like me."

Bruce says nothing, putting his phone away.

"Bruce," Stark slides around the workstation, nudges at Bruce's chair. "Don't pull a Rhodey on me. Look fondly amused, not like I'm about to blow up the lab."

"Tony, you should get back to work," Bruce says, frowning. When Stark doesn't budge he points out the obvious: "We're not the same as you or the people you know."

"More angst about that?" Stark asks, then throws his hands up in a gesture of peace and slides back towards his consoles. "Chill, big guy."

"I'm not going to become that," Bruce says.

"You mean you're not going to investigate the serum for Steve," Stark says.

"I wouldn't risk doing that to him," Bruce says, and something like realization crosses Stark's face. "It wouldn't work here, Tony."

"I take back what I said," Stark says. "If we turned him into a Red Skull here - wait. Wouldn't work here?"

"Stuff like that," Bruce pauses, uncertain how well this will go over, "It doesn't work here. If I investigate gamma rays, I wouldn't turn into the Hulk. I'd just die."

Stark gives him a long look, then reaches out and nudges his shoulder. "Glad you didn't, then."

"I don't need to be told that, but thanks," Bruce says, and Stark shrugs, picking up his tools, apparently dropping the subject.

Bruce lets him work from there, and doesn't complain when Stark turns the loud (obnoxious) music back on, instead sitting back and thinking.

The ring of light in Stark's chest shouldn't work here. Neither should the reactor his Tony has created. The technology is too fantastic, or so he thought.

He watches that glow for a while, wondering if it means anything.

\---

It's hours before they're interrupted again, and Tony's running more calculations when his alternate self and Steve walk in, Steve with a bag in his hand.

Tony turns down - not off - his music.

"Hey," he calls.

"Hi," Steve says, and Tony cheerfully ignores everyone else in favor of Steve's presence, holding a hand out for the bag.

"What'd you bring for me?"

"It's not for you," Steve says, an annoyed look crossing his face, and Tony laughs.

"Right, right," he says. "Are you sticking around to see me go?"

"You're leaving tonight."

"I'm not sitting around and twiddling my thumbs when it's done."

"Then I'm staying."

"...Are you going to ask about coming with me?" Tony asks, a bad feeling springing up. He doesn't want Steve to come with him, as much as he'll miss the little guy. He can barely stand one judgemental Captain America in his life at a time, and he doesn't need two.

"No!" Steve says, then calms, looking embarrassed. "I'm staying here. I've got a place here."

"Knew it," Tony says with a smile. "Give you a day and they'd keep you." He runs fingers over the keyboard, adjusts the numbers. "Steve, make yourself at home, I'm listening."

"This is the last we'll see of each other," Steve says, and Tony watches out of the corner of his eye as Steve sits at an emptied workbench, withdrawing a sketchpad from his bag. Whatever he's doing, Tony won't pry until invited. Or until there's a lull in his work. One of the two.

"Yeah," Tony says. "You were a good host. Thanks." The word feels heavy in his throat, but he gets it out, says it before he can think better of it.

"You're welcome," Steve says, and for a moment Tony wants to duck away and hide from his gaze. There's as much Captain in his gaze as there is Steve, and while Tony can't tell him that, it's true.

He gets back to work after stealing a glance over at Bruce and his alternate self (they're fine), and resolves to ignore all of them until later.

\---

Later is hours later, when his stomach is rumbling with need for food and drink, when all he has to do is finish putting the device together and align everything, when Steve approaches him and taps his shoulder.

"What is it?" Tony asks, more irritable than he should be.

Steve holds out a sandwich and a water bottle.

"Oh." Tony says, taking them. "Right, anything else?"

"In a few minutes," Steve says, and returns to where he's been drawing for the last few hours. (At least he has been when Tony looks over, but there have been times where he could have been entirely gone, for all Tony would have noticed.)

"Okay?" Tony asks, wolfing the sandwich down. It's less about taste and more about sustenance here, and he's grateful that whoever made it understood that.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gulps at the water, and sets it down, eyes on Steve as he does something to his drawing.

Steve approaches him a minute later with an eight by eleven sketch of the city's skyline, and Tony stops to examine it, placing buildings and realizing two things: it's the city from the '40s, the city he never got a chance to explore when he was there, and there's a little silhouetted figure flying among the buildings, one that he can place anywhere: Iron Man.

"Take it with you," Steve urges quietly, and Tony takes it.

"I will," he says, thinking that Steve got him good.

He's grateful for it.

"Was this why you stuck around?" he asks, carefully setting the drawing down near his helmet. "Making sure I'd get this?"

"I wanted to say goodbye, too," Steve says, crossing his arms.

Is he going to annoy _everyone_ today?

"Another hour," Tony says. "Nearly done." Which feels eerie to say, because he's been planning for this for so long, stranded in the past and now he's so close to going home that he can taste it.

He turns back to the way home; gets back to work.

\---

Goodbyes are sincere: "I don't want to see you again." His alternate self is smiling as he says it, and Tony just shakes his hand, amused.

"I don't want to see you either," he says. "Seriously, hire Pepper Potts, you won't regret it."

"I know," he says, and Tony just turns to Bruce at this.

He hates goodbyes, he really does. Going down the line and then with any luck he'll never see them ever again. He shakes Bruce's hand, hopes that when he gets home his Bruce is still around. It’s just that he likes what he’s been seeing, thinks he almost could’ve had it, and Tony Stark isn’t the sort of man who likes missed opportunities.

"Take care," Tony says. Lame lame lame, he thinks. "Get a bed for Steve soon, I mean it. I'll come back if you don't." Not exactly better, but Bruce gives him a nod and a smile and shakes his hand.

"I'm glad you came," Bruce says. Sincere. Bleh. Tony smiles back, doesn't push it. He turns to Steve instead.

...Who is the worst of the lot, regarding sincerity. Steve's handshake is warm and he looks better than he has in weeks, and Tony's really going to miss the little guy.

He's wondering at who he'll get to meet again when he gets home, but - right, sincerity.

"Thanks for having me," Tony says. "And the drawing. I'll get it framed."

"Thanks for saving my life," Steve says, and Tony just shakes his head.

"Good luck," he says, letting go and stepping back. Time to go home. He's got his bag of ruined armor, a drawing by Steve carefully put into a folder for safety, and his ticket home.

"Good luck," he repeats, and activates the device, and light takes him.


	4. epilogue

It takes several days for Bruce to make up his mind, and in those days he gathers all of his possessions to him, packing almost compulsively.

He has to go, he's realized. He likes Steve too much to stay.

The note he's leaving - intends to leave - is the hardest part. He can't leave without saying something, and Steve would ask him to stay.

Bruce doesn't know if he could refuse an honest request. He needs to leave because of that.

He eventually settles on something short and to the point: _Steve - Thanks for everything. I need to go. - Bruce_

It's still likely Steve will try to find him and ask him for answers, but that's likely with any note he leaves. He has to settle with this one.

He leaves it on the kitchen counter, gets his bag, and has mistimed his exit entirely: Steve's coming in the front door, hanging up his jacket on a peg, back early from his sojourn to Central Park.

"Bruce?"

Bruce knows what he looks like: hat on, bag on his shoulder, ready to leave.

"You're leaving," Steve says, and the edge of his voice is brittle.

"I am leaving," Bruce says.

Steve looks at him for a long minute, and Bruce waits for it.

"Do you have somewhere to go?" Steve asks, and Bruce tamps down on the frustration. He still likes this apartment. He still likes Steve.

"Steve, I've got everything in order," Bruce says, and he can see just how much that cuts.

"...Call if you need anything," Steve says, sounding genuine. That's the worst part: he _is_ genuine in his offer. "Anything, Bruce."

"I will," Bruce says, and Steve steps out of the way.

That's it. All he has to do now is walk out. Bruce takes a step.

The doorbell rings.

Bruce grips his bag tighter. If it's a solicitor, the Other Guy will show him where he can sell his aluminum siding.

Steve is the one to look at Bruce before going to the door and opening it, just a crack: Bruce can't see who it is, but he can see how Steve goes still.

He opens his mouth to ask who it is, and the words die in his throat.

"I'm not a ghost, open the door," says the person on the other side of the door. It can't be. "If you're going to stare at me, you can do it inside."

Steve swings the door open, letting Tony Stark walk in. Tony Stark. Who should be dead. Steve swings the door shut and pushes Tony up against the wall, fisting his hands in his suit jacket, making Tony yelp with surprise.

"Who are you?" Steve demands, and Bruce holds his breath. It can't be the real Tony Stark.

He's dead. They saw him vanish into that portal, and he never came out.

"Cap, if this is how you greet all your presumed-dead friends, we need to talk about manners," Tony says, hands up with his palms out. "If we have to go through this, though - open up the shirt. Reactor's there, and if you guys need more confirmation than that," his eyes flick towards Bruce. "I can tell you about the blueberries on the Helicarrier."

"How?" Steve asks, and Bruce sets his bag down.

There's no question, in his mind. It's Tony. Somehow.

"Would you believe time-travel?" Tony asks, still pressed up against the wall. "Listen, can you let me down? It's a long story, and I'm not telling long stories without coffee these days."

"Time travel."

"The portal was collapsing when I fell into it," Tony says. "It spit me out somewhere and somewhen else. Took me awhile to find my way back - by the way, nice job with the city! I've been worried - tell me we got Loki."

"We got Loki," Steve says, and Bruce drops his hat onto his bag.

"Great!" Tony gives them both a grin, and looks from Steve's hands to his face. "Christ, you're tall."

"I'm...what?"

"Long story," Tony repeats. "Can you let me down now? I really need some coffee before I get into it, because otherwise I'm going to have to do all of it with you practically pressed against me and I - "

"I'll go make the coffee," Bruce says, and that's the cue Steve must have been waiting for: he lets Tony go, steps back to give him space.

" _Finally_ ," Tony says, and as Bruce begins to walk towards the kitchen he hears another yelp. He turns -

And Steve is hugging Tony tightly, and Bruce understands that urge so well, and when Tony begins to complain Bruce interrupts him.

"Let him," he says. "We thought you were dead."

"I wasn't," Tony says, but he hugs Steve back as Bruce goes into the kitchen, and the coffee can't make itself quickly enough.

\---

It takes about thirty seconds for Tony to remember why Steve might care about him so much - enough to hug him to death, jesus - and then it all makes sense, why Steve's still holding on.

"Steve," he says, quieter. "I'm not going anywhere."

Steve nods and finally steps back, letting go, and Tony doesn't say a word about Bucky. He's thinking, though, and he knows that as soon as he can get back to the Tower he'll have to add looking for Bucky's dogtags onto JARVIS' to-do list. (That had been such a good idea, when he'd heard what his alternate self was arranging for Steve - he'll steal it, claim it was his. They'll never know the difference.)

"Coffee," Tony says. "And then I get to tell you that the heating in your old apartment _sucked_."

"What?"

Tony gives him a grin and heads for the kitchen, whistling - it's so _good_ to be home.

And speaking of coffee - he figures hell, why not? and gives Bruce a hug, catching him around the waist and holding him tightly.

"Hey there," Tony says, before making a grab for the coffee and giving Bruce some space.

Bruce doesn't Hulk out: it's a win-win situation.

"You're friendly," Bruce says, turning to face him.

"I missed you guys more than I thought I would," Tony says. "You both have no idea how good we've got it - " He leans up against a counter, and stops, turning. A note?

"That's - " Bruce starts, but oh, hey.

"The tower's still a mess, but if you need somewhere to stay it should be first on your list," Tony says as he trashes the note. "The labs are intact - mostly - and I did mention ten floors of R&D, right?"

Oh, that's gotten them both speechless. Tony sips his coffee.

"How about we start with my story and then figure out who gets to bunk with Bruce?" he asks. "...But seriously, ten floors. Think about it."

There are plenty of things here he'll have to get caught up on here, he knew that already, but the way Bruce glances at Steve and the whole note business - yeah, they owe him a story time just as much as he owes them.

Oh, right: he's home. He's home and there's so much to do - tell Pepper, make Bruce stay - but he's home. And his teammates are waiting for him to explain everything.

So he starts at the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it - thank you all for reading!


End file.
